Love:
The Piano Guys
One day, while meandering about the internet as I am occasionally wont to do, I stumbled across this:
(As usual, if the link doesn't work, you can go here .)
And I LOVED it.
So, here's the thing. Seven hundred and twelve years ago, when I was in high school, I was a band geek. You probably could have guessed that about me, but here I am, taking the guesswork right out of it for you. There it is. BAND GEEK. I was a band officer. I LETTERED in band.
Are you getting the hint here?
Not only was I a terminal band nerd, I was a band nerd who played an excessively nerdy instrument:
The bass clarinet.
Now you might be wondering to yourself, Self, what is it like playing the bass clarinet? This is only MY perspective, mind you, but here were the three most challenging things about playing the bass clarinet:
1) explaining to people that you played the bass clarinet.
2) sustaining single notes for a REALLLLLLLLLY long time. Like, forever. Like 112 measures of one note. A REALLY long time.
3) Sitting next to this guy, David Ouellette, for two years in band. Because he was -- and probably still is -- a GENIUS. He played the bassoon (and, like, every other instrument ever. PERFECTLY, I might add), we sat in the odd instrument section (with the french horns and the oboes) and he was brilliant. BRILLIANT. And also terrifying as a result. I sat next to him for two solid years and I don't think he ever learned my name. He certainly didn't ever SAY my name and I was MUCH too afraid of him to ever speak with him. So basically, it was two years of learning to exhale very slowly (but forcefully) while sitting next to someone who I am pretty sure did not know I existed (and this was in high school, when there were days when I wasn't altogether certain that I existed) except for when I played something slightly incorrectly, which would then result in the tiniest whiff of disapproval, which was CRUSHING because ... well, did I mention the brilliant? But then he graduated -- he was two years ahead of me -- and after that, I only had the first two items on this list to contend with.
(Dear David, in the HIGHLY unlikely event that you're reading this -- and why would you be, since you had no idea who I was -- I have since forgiven you for making me feel like an idiot every day for two years. Mostly. Well, okay, kind of no, but I realize that it wasn't ON PURPOSE that you were smarter than everyone else. Hugs, Danielle)
Anyway. Because I am a Band Geek, I love it whenever someone is able to take his or her Band Geekness and turn it into a career.
Which is what the Piano Guys have done. And -- they're SO GOOD. This is the music I listen to when I'm stressed out at work and need a little extra help finding my happy place.You should check them out here.
Hate:
Scraping noises.
Scraping noises of any kind. Not just the usual "nails on a blackboard" (although DEAR GOD, that's the worst) but also --
scraping frost off a windshield
the sound of a shovel against tar or concrete
the sound of utensils scraping across the bottom of a pan
I don't know what it is about that noise that makes me feel like someone is trying to STEAL MY SOUL, I just know that I hate it.
So, to recap:
Love: The Piano Guys
Hate: Scraping Noises
Next week -- Cheezits and overly ridiculous packaging
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Reasonably Mouthy
A friend of mine recently described herself as being "reasonably mouthy," which is the sort of description I love. I think she meant that she was "somewhat mouthy" or "mouthy within the realms of reasonable-ness -- not excessively mouthy" but I did not ask her.
I rolled the phrase around in my brain for a little bit, and then decided that I loved it for another reason entirely, and that I think of myself as reasonably mouthy because a) I am reasonable -- I like to argue from a place of rationality and b) I am mouthy -- I have an almost pathological need to stand up for philosophies and politics and justice as needed (and I've noticed that it's almost always needed).
As the election cycle dwindles, I'm more convinced that we are a nation being dominated by the unreasonably mouthy -- individuals who come from places devoid of rational thought, but who cannot seem to stop talking regardless of that fact -- and that, as it turns out, the more unreasonable the mouth, the more air time and play it gets. This might make good tv, but it makes lousy politics. It also serves to silence quieter, more rational arguments -- perhaps that is the intention. By listening only to the loudest voices, we discourage the rest of the voices who feel as though they will never be heard, as though there is no point to speaking at all, and as such allow our political process to be dominated by an extreme few who don't necessarily represent the beliefs of their parties or their constituents.
I believe that saying that this is not okay might be one of the grosser understatements that I have ever made.
As a reasonably mouthy person, I do know that I have a tendency to stomp all over places where angels fear to tread, mostly because I have noticed this: the places where we most need rational discourse are also most often the places where we have the least of it, and when we shy away from having rational conversations about controversial topics, we do nothing but ensure that they will continue to be both controversial and unresolved. I feel as though in order to come to a place of understanding and, when possible, compromise, we need the reasonably mouthy -- people who are not afraid to start or continue real conversations about those issues, so that we can unpack them, examine them, and move forward as a society.
Because, at the end of the day, what we need IS real conversation, not shouting matches where the loudest person wins, and not conversations where those of differing opinions are dismissed as evil. We also need to understand -- especially as a society that prides itself on freedom of religion -- that we need to stop using religion as a key element in public political discourse because, though we are all citizens of this nation and therefore subject to its laws and civil liberties, we are not all praying to or obeying the same notion of God. I know that the statement that religion has no place in reasonable mouthiness might be offensive to some people, but I would say -- again, with reason -- that if you would not like to be made subject to the rules and regulations of someone else's religion, you should reconsider before you legally subject them to the rules and regulations of your own -- because to do so would not be reasonable; I've noticed that few productive political conversations take place after God is introduced into them, if only because then the conversation is about religious beliefs, and who's are better, and who's are more valid, rather that whatever the original subject was.
I also understand that the previous paragraph falls into the category of stomping where angels fear to tread. Don't say I didn't warn you.
I feel as though reasonable mouthiness is required in order to make this a country that actually provides both liberty and justice for all. Not just for people of the correct background, with the correct religion, the correct level of education, the correct work ethic, number of children, amount in their bank account. For ALL. That's you and me and the guy over there. That's those who pray in a mosque and those who pray in cathedrals and those who pray in the woods. It's the people who shout their beliefs -- but it's also the rest of us. There are more of us than there are of them.
We should all be reasonably mouthy.
I rolled the phrase around in my brain for a little bit, and then decided that I loved it for another reason entirely, and that I think of myself as reasonably mouthy because a) I am reasonable -- I like to argue from a place of rationality and b) I am mouthy -- I have an almost pathological need to stand up for philosophies and politics and justice as needed (and I've noticed that it's almost always needed).
As the election cycle dwindles, I'm more convinced that we are a nation being dominated by the unreasonably mouthy -- individuals who come from places devoid of rational thought, but who cannot seem to stop talking regardless of that fact -- and that, as it turns out, the more unreasonable the mouth, the more air time and play it gets. This might make good tv, but it makes lousy politics. It also serves to silence quieter, more rational arguments -- perhaps that is the intention. By listening only to the loudest voices, we discourage the rest of the voices who feel as though they will never be heard, as though there is no point to speaking at all, and as such allow our political process to be dominated by an extreme few who don't necessarily represent the beliefs of their parties or their constituents.
I believe that saying that this is not okay might be one of the grosser understatements that I have ever made.
As a reasonably mouthy person, I do know that I have a tendency to stomp all over places where angels fear to tread, mostly because I have noticed this: the places where we most need rational discourse are also most often the places where we have the least of it, and when we shy away from having rational conversations about controversial topics, we do nothing but ensure that they will continue to be both controversial and unresolved. I feel as though in order to come to a place of understanding and, when possible, compromise, we need the reasonably mouthy -- people who are not afraid to start or continue real conversations about those issues, so that we can unpack them, examine them, and move forward as a society.
Because, at the end of the day, what we need IS real conversation, not shouting matches where the loudest person wins, and not conversations where those of differing opinions are dismissed as evil. We also need to understand -- especially as a society that prides itself on freedom of religion -- that we need to stop using religion as a key element in public political discourse because, though we are all citizens of this nation and therefore subject to its laws and civil liberties, we are not all praying to or obeying the same notion of God. I know that the statement that religion has no place in reasonable mouthiness might be offensive to some people, but I would say -- again, with reason -- that if you would not like to be made subject to the rules and regulations of someone else's religion, you should reconsider before you legally subject them to the rules and regulations of your own -- because to do so would not be reasonable; I've noticed that few productive political conversations take place after God is introduced into them, if only because then the conversation is about religious beliefs, and who's are better, and who's are more valid, rather that whatever the original subject was.
I also understand that the previous paragraph falls into the category of stomping where angels fear to tread. Don't say I didn't warn you.
I feel as though reasonable mouthiness is required in order to make this a country that actually provides both liberty and justice for all. Not just for people of the correct background, with the correct religion, the correct level of education, the correct work ethic, number of children, amount in their bank account. For ALL. That's you and me and the guy over there. That's those who pray in a mosque and those who pray in cathedrals and those who pray in the woods. It's the people who shout their beliefs -- but it's also the rest of us. There are more of us than there are of them.
We should all be reasonably mouthy.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Coffee: A Love Story
Last week, my coffee pot ... expired.
This was an unexpected event, because this coffee maker is newish -- about a year old -- and had no business giving up the ghost at this point. ESPECIALLY on a morning.
A Friday morning.
After a very long week.
When I realized what was happening -- that there was no coffee to be had, senorita, so sorry -- I stoically put on a brave face and thought "Who cares? I don't need coffee!" and continued my day in a stalwart fashion.
Wait, no. That's not at all what happened.
Here's what happened: I cleaned up the mess that had been created by my previous attempt to make coffee, reloaded the machine, and tried again, thinking that it may have been a weird coffee related glitch. While it "brewed" (translation: completely failed to brew) I stood at the counter, fingers crossed, possibly whimpering slightly.
No dice.
I cleaned up the SECOND mess that was made by the coffee pot and sat down on the kitchen floor, and did a crisis assessment. The first thing I realized was that I couldn't complete a crisis assessment without coffee.
The second thing I realized was that I was sitting on the floor, when there were perfectly functional chairs nearby.
The third thing was that this was going to be a LONG day. Oh so long.
I stood up. I made myself a cup of tea.
A word about tea: I enjoy tea. It's delicious and comforting. However. Coffee it ain't.
I sipped the tea. The tea seemed to speak to me. "It'll be okay," it said. "I'll hang out with you today. Go put on a sweater and go to work. We'll ease into the day."
Which, really, is the difference between tea and coffee. Tea wants to give you a hug. Coffee wants to kick you in the ass and get you going.
I WANT that.
Moreover, I NEED that in my mornings. I require a good hearty jolt to the system that forces all systems to set on go. I have to be able to charge through my mornings like a MACHINE, one that runs on french roast and sarcasm. If this is not written into my job description, it should be.
I drank the tea. "See? Don't you feel better?"
I felt -- something. To be honest, I felt like nothing would be more fabulous than putting on my pajamas and curling right back up into bed, which was kind of the opposite of what I needed to be doing. But I didn't want to hurt the tea's feelings.
"I'm GREAT," I said. "Let's GOOOOO!"
Here's the thing: I don't know when coffee became a staple of my day. I didn't grow up drinking it. My dad drinks instant coffee, and let me tell you, if your only exposure to coffee is INSTANT coffee? You don't exactly grow up thinking it's God's favoured beverage. It smells great, but it tastes like filtered mud.
At some point -- perhaps in high school, but I really don't know -- I had REAL coffee. And quickly came to depend on it as the jump start to my every day. I drank it by the pot full through college. I can't really talk about how much coffee I consumed daily throughout graduate school and my first years of teaching, but it was ...
... well ...
... let's just say it was a lot. A LOT a lot. Probably enough for six or seven people, I don't really know. As you can probably imagine, those years are a bit of a blur. A warm, coffee scented, deliciously hyper blur.
I took my tea into my office and sat down at the computer. I was ready to go, I decided. I was ready to DO THIS.
There was just one thing I had to do first:
I ordered another coffee pot.
The tea looked slightly offended. "It's not you," I said quietly. "It's ME. I like you? But ... I can't live without the coffee."
The new pot is supposed to come this week. I'm pretty sure I can hang on until then. In the meantime, the convenience store down the street is becoming VERY USED to seeing me.
"MORE coffee?" the clerk asks in disbelief. "REALLY?"
She has NO idea.
This was an unexpected event, because this coffee maker is newish -- about a year old -- and had no business giving up the ghost at this point. ESPECIALLY on a morning.
A Friday morning.
After a very long week.
When I realized what was happening -- that there was no coffee to be had, senorita, so sorry -- I stoically put on a brave face and thought "Who cares? I don't need coffee!" and continued my day in a stalwart fashion.
Wait, no. That's not at all what happened.
Here's what happened: I cleaned up the mess that had been created by my previous attempt to make coffee, reloaded the machine, and tried again, thinking that it may have been a weird coffee related glitch. While it "brewed" (translation: completely failed to brew) I stood at the counter, fingers crossed, possibly whimpering slightly.
No dice.
I cleaned up the SECOND mess that was made by the coffee pot and sat down on the kitchen floor, and did a crisis assessment. The first thing I realized was that I couldn't complete a crisis assessment without coffee.
The second thing I realized was that I was sitting on the floor, when there were perfectly functional chairs nearby.
The third thing was that this was going to be a LONG day. Oh so long.
I stood up. I made myself a cup of tea.
A word about tea: I enjoy tea. It's delicious and comforting. However. Coffee it ain't.
I sipped the tea. The tea seemed to speak to me. "It'll be okay," it said. "I'll hang out with you today. Go put on a sweater and go to work. We'll ease into the day."
Which, really, is the difference between tea and coffee. Tea wants to give you a hug. Coffee wants to kick you in the ass and get you going.
I WANT that.
Moreover, I NEED that in my mornings. I require a good hearty jolt to the system that forces all systems to set on go. I have to be able to charge through my mornings like a MACHINE, one that runs on french roast and sarcasm. If this is not written into my job description, it should be.
I drank the tea. "See? Don't you feel better?"
I felt -- something. To be honest, I felt like nothing would be more fabulous than putting on my pajamas and curling right back up into bed, which was kind of the opposite of what I needed to be doing. But I didn't want to hurt the tea's feelings.
"I'm GREAT," I said. "Let's GOOOOO!"
Here's the thing: I don't know when coffee became a staple of my day. I didn't grow up drinking it. My dad drinks instant coffee, and let me tell you, if your only exposure to coffee is INSTANT coffee? You don't exactly grow up thinking it's God's favoured beverage. It smells great, but it tastes like filtered mud.
At some point -- perhaps in high school, but I really don't know -- I had REAL coffee. And quickly came to depend on it as the jump start to my every day. I drank it by the pot full through college. I can't really talk about how much coffee I consumed daily throughout graduate school and my first years of teaching, but it was ...
... well ...
... let's just say it was a lot. A LOT a lot. Probably enough for six or seven people, I don't really know. As you can probably imagine, those years are a bit of a blur. A warm, coffee scented, deliciously hyper blur.
I took my tea into my office and sat down at the computer. I was ready to go, I decided. I was ready to DO THIS.
There was just one thing I had to do first:
I ordered another coffee pot.
The tea looked slightly offended. "It's not you," I said quietly. "It's ME. I like you? But ... I can't live without the coffee."
The new pot is supposed to come this week. I'm pretty sure I can hang on until then. In the meantime, the convenience store down the street is becoming VERY USED to seeing me.
"MORE coffee?" the clerk asks in disbelief. "REALLY?"
She has NO idea.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Friday Randoms
I
"No, see, Halloween doesn't count. It's like Vegas. What happens on Halloween STAYS on Halloween. That's why it's awesome."
"I cannot find the flaw in your logic, though I have tried. That's ..."
"Brilliant? I KNOW."
II
"Your sister is supposed to call me from the airport tonight while she's waiting for her connecting flight home."
"Oh, she had a frustrating morning. She's probably going to tell you about how she left her phone in the car."
"What?"
"Oh. Yeah. No, she's not going to be calling you."
III
"What are you even going to be for Halloween?"
"Actually, probably the same thing as last year."
"Isn't that cheating?"
"I think of it more as a contemporary commentary on the current socio-economic uncertainty that's facing this great nation."
"Sooooo you're too broke to buy a new costume."
"Do you KNOW how much I paid for the boots for last year's costume? I'm wearing 'em every year for the rest of my life. I'd wear them EVERY DAY. Except, you know, they're whore-y."
IV
"Hey. You know what I learned about cast iron pans today?"
"What's that?"
"The HANDLES get hot."
"Oh boy..."
"It wasn't a lesson my brain grasped QUICKLY either. Apparently I needed to learn it seven or eight times before it REALLY sank in."
V
"Here's your pepper spray."
"It's purple. AWWWWWW you got me girly pepper spray! This says, 'I will kick your ass, but I will do so in a ladylike fashion.'"
"Yeah. Could you try not to shoot yourself with it this time?"
"I will do my best, but I make no promises."
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Crazy
I was having a conversation with a friend yesterday that
included the following snippet:
“I think she’s definitely, you know, less … crazy.”
“I don’t know how good that is, though, because less crazy
isn’t the same as NOT crazy. It’s like the lesser of two evils – less evil is
STILL evil. Less crazy is still crazy.”
“You may have a point.”
I should say here that I use the word crazy with some care.
When I speak or write about mental illness, I call it what it is: illness. If I
have the name – anorexia, body dysmorphia, depression, whatever – I use the
name without judgement. I would not call someone with mental illness crazy.
I would call someone who declares that she doesn’t believe
in provable facts a little crazy.
For example, if you told me that you didn’t believe in
gravity? I might begin to define you as crazy. Because, science.
I would also call someone who sees life as an obstacle
course that must be carefully constructed for other people crazy.
Say we were having dinner. And you asked me what I thought
that you should order. So I said, “The fish here is excellent” and you say “WRONG
ANSWER” because you really want meatloaf, and then you go on a long explanation
of the virtues of meatloaf versus fish? That’s crazy, and I will also never
have dinner with you again.
Or, equally fun, say you asked me “Yellie, if you wanted to
buy shoes, where would you go?” and I reply, quite naturally, “A shoe store,”
and you said “NO. NO ONE BUYS SHOES AT A SHOESTORE. THAT IS WRONG.”
That’s crazy.
So the person my friend and I were discussing? On a scale of
one to ten? Was an eleven, but now she’s down to, say … a nine point five.
Which is an improvement, but still?
Crazy.
Which I will admit to sometimes being – well, a little
beneficial. It’s definitely inspired my creativity, because every time she asks
me a question, I try to think of some answer other than the expected one. This
occasionally works. So if she said, “What do you think I should buy, a Smart
Car or a Fiat,” I might reply: “A bicycle! They don’t require gas, they’re easy
to park, and you don’t have to insure it!” and have that be … perhaps not the
right answer, but one that is somehow acceptable.
I am also forced to confront my own willingness to believe
facts and statistics, because she will look at years of carefully compiled data
that shows provable trends and declare that she doesn’t believe any of it. This
frequently throws me for a loop, but also makes me look at information more
closely and ask questions. That’s not a
terrible thing.
So sometimes – sometimes – the crazy is helpful or a little
entertaining.
Mostly, it’s exhausting and annoying. Because – how do you
not believe in GRAVITY?! WHY would you make everyone you know guess what you’re
thinking all of the time? Why WOULDN’T you buy shoes at a shoe store?
Because I’ll tell you what: it’s starting to make me crazy.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Love/Hate Wednesday
Welcome to Love/Hate Wednesday! These two items will probably not be in any way connected to each other because my brain is kind of random. Oh wait, you knew that. Okay then.
Love:
Getting letters and notes in the mail.
I used to be a prolific letter writer. Now I'm a so-so letter writer, with a few notable exceptions. But OH, there is something about opening your mailbox and seeing your name handwritten on an envelope, isn't there? It's GLORIOUS.
There's also something about buying cards and stationary that makes me happy -- oooooh, or MAKING my own cards and stationary. That's awesome too, though occasionally overly ambitious. (But SO fabulous. I exchange correspondence now and again with a gentleman and I nearly always make the cards and stationary. Because ... well, because.)
I know what you're thinking: why go to the time and expense? Email is SO much faster. And cheaper -- do you know how much a stamp costs these days? You have a point, I suppose -- if economy and efficiency are the guiding forces in your life. However, I don't think anyone ever sighed over a keepsake box full of printed out EMAILS, or got a little sentimental over an internet chat that she once had with her mum, or had the ritual burning of text messages after a relationship went bad.
GEEK ALERT: one of the first forms of popular novels was the epistolary novel, which was written as a collection of letters by or between fictional characters. SWOOOOOOONNNNN.
Do yourself a favour -- get some paper. Get a pen. Write someone you think is fabulous a message. Slip it in the mail -- even if it's someone you LIVE with. It will be awesome.
Hate:
Eating meals at my desk.
For the somethingth day in a row, I have eaten breakfast and dinner at my desk. I have been taking NAPS during lunch, because a) I work at home and I can and b) I'm tired from working so many hours that I find it absolutely possible to eat breakfast and dinner at my desk.
Here's why I hate this -- it's SO MESSY. Crumby potentially sticky messiness. And since, as I mentioned, I work from home, there's no office cleaning crew. (However, this does possibly also mean that I have the cleanest office kitchen, fridge, and microwave EVER.*) There's just me, an Electolux, and a cat who thinks said Electrolux is the DEVIL.
Good times.
Seriously, though, I've been trying to eat mindfully, and eating mindfully and working at the same time is -- well, I'm not going to use the word "impossible" here because I don't suppose it IS impossible, but it is very very challenging, and not the fun kind of challenge, but the "how-much-have-I-eaten-I-didn't-notice-because-that-spreadsheet-sidetracked-me-oh-crap-I-am-SO-FULL-DARNITTHISISWHATI'MSUPPOSEDTOBEFOCUSINGONWHENIEAT!"** kind.
I hate eating at my desk. I like eating at a proper table. With candles. And wine. And hopefully without having to shoo the cat away from my plate or the candles (or, hell, the wine).
To wrap it up:
I love getting mail/ I hate eating at my desk.
Next Week: The Piano Guys/Scraping Noises
*Bonus thing I love: the Oxford Comma. Boooyah.
**Translation: Darn it, this is what I'm supposed to be focusing on when I eat!
Love:
Getting letters and notes in the mail.
I used to be a prolific letter writer. Now I'm a so-so letter writer, with a few notable exceptions. But OH, there is something about opening your mailbox and seeing your name handwritten on an envelope, isn't there? It's GLORIOUS.
There's also something about buying cards and stationary that makes me happy -- oooooh, or MAKING my own cards and stationary. That's awesome too, though occasionally overly ambitious. (But SO fabulous. I exchange correspondence now and again with a gentleman and I nearly always make the cards and stationary. Because ... well, because.)
I know what you're thinking: why go to the time and expense? Email is SO much faster. And cheaper -- do you know how much a stamp costs these days? You have a point, I suppose -- if economy and efficiency are the guiding forces in your life. However, I don't think anyone ever sighed over a keepsake box full of printed out EMAILS, or got a little sentimental over an internet chat that she once had with her mum, or had the ritual burning of text messages after a relationship went bad.
GEEK ALERT: one of the first forms of popular novels was the epistolary novel, which was written as a collection of letters by or between fictional characters. SWOOOOOOONNNNN.
Do yourself a favour -- get some paper. Get a pen. Write someone you think is fabulous a message. Slip it in the mail -- even if it's someone you LIVE with. It will be awesome.
Hate:
Eating meals at my desk.
For the somethingth day in a row, I have eaten breakfast and dinner at my desk. I have been taking NAPS during lunch, because a) I work at home and I can and b) I'm tired from working so many hours that I find it absolutely possible to eat breakfast and dinner at my desk.
Here's why I hate this -- it's SO MESSY. Crumby potentially sticky messiness. And since, as I mentioned, I work from home, there's no office cleaning crew. (However, this does possibly also mean that I have the cleanest office kitchen, fridge, and microwave EVER.*) There's just me, an Electolux, and a cat who thinks said Electrolux is the DEVIL.
Good times.
Seriously, though, I've been trying to eat mindfully, and eating mindfully and working at the same time is -- well, I'm not going to use the word "impossible" here because I don't suppose it IS impossible, but it is very very challenging, and not the fun kind of challenge, but the "how-much-have-I-eaten-I-didn't-notice-because-that-spreadsheet-sidetracked-me-oh-crap-I-am-SO-FULL-DARNITTHISISWHATI'MSUPPOSEDTOBEFOCUSINGONWHENIEAT!"** kind.
I hate eating at my desk. I like eating at a proper table. With candles. And wine. And hopefully without having to shoo the cat away from my plate or the candles (or, hell, the wine).
To wrap it up:
I love getting mail/ I hate eating at my desk.
Next Week: The Piano Guys/Scraping Noises
*Bonus thing I love: the Oxford Comma. Boooyah.
**Translation: Darn it, this is what I'm supposed to be focusing on when I eat!
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Yesterday's Post, Explained (Sort Of)
Let's talk for a moment about seals.
A seal on land is a graceless thing. Adorable, but not agile, trying to flipper and squirm its way back into the water. Once there, it becomes an acrobat. Graceful, speedy, amazing.
I often feel as though the best thing about the internet is that it helps some of us who are like seals. In person, I feel bumbling and awkward. When I can write, however, I feel less goofy and stupid and more like the person I am all the time inside my head. She just doesn't get to come out and play in public.
One of my best friends and I were talking recently about children who are a little socially awkward, and how that translates into adulthood. She had seen a piece on Steven Spielberg where he discussed being bullied and being unpopular when he was a child. "I know you felt out of place," she said, "but when we were kids you always had us." It's true -- I had her and some other friends then and I have them now; they're wonderful.
I know it's not their fault I spend most of my time feeling like an alien. It's mine. It's brain chemistry and environment and about a million other things, all of which combined make me feel like an idiot nearly all of the time.
But not when I write.
For me, this space -- and emails, and letters, and any time I string letters together into a series of words and sentences and paragraphs -- is my most natural habitat. It's where I stop feeling like an idiot and start making sense of the world. It's where I don't fumble about to try to say what I mean, because I know what I mean and I know how I want to say it. Even when what I want to say is difficult, or when it's something I wouldn't talk about over coffee, I can write about it.
So I do.
When I first began blogging, back in about 2005 (on another platform entirely), I was with someone who thought that it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Of course, that person didn't really enjoy it when I expressed myself at any moment, ever -- most of what I said or did or thought was stupid at that point -- and after a while, I let it go because it was easier to stop writing then it was to fight about it.
I don't think it's really a coincidence that I became greatly depressed shortly after.
I also don't think it's a coincidence that when I got ready to change my life again -- to uproot myself and relocate again -- that I started writing again. It was time for me to stop being quiet. It was time to rejoin the rest of the world. So there we were. And if I heard a voice in my head, a mean and cranky one, saying to me, "Why would you waste your time on this?" I was able to reply, quite firmly: "Shut up."
So here we are, 487 posts later. I've had people I don't know very well (and some I don't know at all) approach me and tell me they like what I'm doing here (which is both mildy terrifying and incredibly amazing). I've received emails and comments of support. I've been published.
Seriously, you guys. It's been awesome.
So, yesterday's post.
I was approached by a network that expressed interest in what I'm doing here. Which is fabulous, but if you've been reading, you know that I haven't done particularly well with the blogging networks. (Translation: I'm never going to make any money off this, which is fine.) They asked for some information, I provided it, blah blah blah. And ...
... well, you know the rest.
When I said that I didn't know what I was going to do next? I'd been tossing around the idea for about a week (after the "this is not happening" revelation) -- to maybe slow down and refocus on other things. Like, oh hey, the novel, which has been sitting ignored. Or putting together some short stories. Or ... you know, something else.
I have realized, however, that I don't want to do those other things. (Well, the novel(s) do need some love, that's true.) What I most like doing is this. Engaging with people, even in a small way, on a daily basis.
Because this is where I feel the most comfortable. This is where I get to play. So if it's all the same to everyone? I'm staying right here.
Thanks for hanging around.
A seal on land is a graceless thing. Adorable, but not agile, trying to flipper and squirm its way back into the water. Once there, it becomes an acrobat. Graceful, speedy, amazing.
I often feel as though the best thing about the internet is that it helps some of us who are like seals. In person, I feel bumbling and awkward. When I can write, however, I feel less goofy and stupid and more like the person I am all the time inside my head. She just doesn't get to come out and play in public.
One of my best friends and I were talking recently about children who are a little socially awkward, and how that translates into adulthood. She had seen a piece on Steven Spielberg where he discussed being bullied and being unpopular when he was a child. "I know you felt out of place," she said, "but when we were kids you always had us." It's true -- I had her and some other friends then and I have them now; they're wonderful.
I know it's not their fault I spend most of my time feeling like an alien. It's mine. It's brain chemistry and environment and about a million other things, all of which combined make me feel like an idiot nearly all of the time.
But not when I write.
For me, this space -- and emails, and letters, and any time I string letters together into a series of words and sentences and paragraphs -- is my most natural habitat. It's where I stop feeling like an idiot and start making sense of the world. It's where I don't fumble about to try to say what I mean, because I know what I mean and I know how I want to say it. Even when what I want to say is difficult, or when it's something I wouldn't talk about over coffee, I can write about it.
So I do.
When I first began blogging, back in about 2005 (on another platform entirely), I was with someone who thought that it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Of course, that person didn't really enjoy it when I expressed myself at any moment, ever -- most of what I said or did or thought was stupid at that point -- and after a while, I let it go because it was easier to stop writing then it was to fight about it.
I don't think it's really a coincidence that I became greatly depressed shortly after.
I also don't think it's a coincidence that when I got ready to change my life again -- to uproot myself and relocate again -- that I started writing again. It was time for me to stop being quiet. It was time to rejoin the rest of the world. So there we were. And if I heard a voice in my head, a mean and cranky one, saying to me, "Why would you waste your time on this?" I was able to reply, quite firmly: "Shut up."
So here we are, 487 posts later. I've had people I don't know very well (and some I don't know at all) approach me and tell me they like what I'm doing here (which is both mildy terrifying and incredibly amazing). I've received emails and comments of support. I've been published.
Seriously, you guys. It's been awesome.
So, yesterday's post.
I was approached by a network that expressed interest in what I'm doing here. Which is fabulous, but if you've been reading, you know that I haven't done particularly well with the blogging networks. (Translation: I'm never going to make any money off this, which is fine.) They asked for some information, I provided it, blah blah blah. And ...
... well, you know the rest.
When I said that I didn't know what I was going to do next? I'd been tossing around the idea for about a week (after the "this is not happening" revelation) -- to maybe slow down and refocus on other things. Like, oh hey, the novel, which has been sitting ignored. Or putting together some short stories. Or ... you know, something else.
I have realized, however, that I don't want to do those other things. (Well, the novel(s) do need some love, that's true.) What I most like doing is this. Engaging with people, even in a small way, on a daily basis.
Because this is where I feel the most comfortable. This is where I get to play. So if it's all the same to everyone? I'm staying right here.
Thanks for hanging around.
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