This weekend my brother surprised me by showing up in our state to have Thanksgiving dinner with his girlfriends family. After some aggravating non-planning we decided to meet up for some random activity before they jumped in a car and returned to the "north".
The random activity? Ice-skating.
Having spent most of my life in Hawaii I have not had a lot of occasion to skate on ice. This is mostly because in Hawaii all the ice is found in your pina colada (or mai-tai, or shave-ice, or the cooler...you get the idea). My brother roller-blades as his main form of transportation, so ice skating proves no problem for him, for me this would be the second time in my life I'd ever seen an ice rink in person.
My name is Katy it is not Grace. I am admittedly one of the biggest klutzes around. I've been known to walk into walls for no reason, fall up stairs, whack my hands (arms, legs, head) on random objects almost completely out of my path and most recently I somehow managed to get a paper cut on my nose just by getting out of the car. I walk around most of the time with a lot of bruises and cuts without knowing where they came from. My husband thinks I complain a lot about my bumps and scraps, but he only hears about maybe 2% of the things I do. I only complain about the ones that really hurt.
Surprisingly, though I have problems with the whole walking-like-a-normal-person, I am extremely good at the harder parts of coordination. I can rub my tummy and pat my head at the same time. I am an accomplished chop-stick user, and can though I can't pick a fly out of the air I can pick up rice one grain at a time if I so choose. I can ski fairly well, albeit slowly. I am an excellent dancer and come off quite gracefully when I dance. In fact during jazz and ballet classes that is the main comment I hear. I move "pretty". It is the same with ice skating.
I did one turn around the rink next to the wall both pulling myself forward and holding myself up. Three fourths of the way around I had figured out how to slide my feet out and in enough to propel myself along without the wall and to coast for most of the way. Another half an hour had me zig-zagging my path and by forty-five minutes I was brave enough to pick up my feet just a little. This proved some problem, as did a graceful stop without having to turn a full 360 degrees, but I figure for a very short session on the ice I had mastered the basics and simply needed refinement.
Refinement may be hard to come by though as my partner in crime did one turn around the rink then promptly plopped himself down on the bench and waited while I puffed around trying to keep up with my brother and his girlfriend. Luckily being a klutz I've learned the all-important lesson of laughing at myself, and with others, when I mess up. This also allows me to be perfectly happy going my own speed and learning at my own pace. Don't worry folks, I'll get there when I get there.
It is odd though that I can master rather complicated movements so easily and have no trouble keeping my balance or my focus when executing them. I have a theory that this may come from dance class itself. I spent so many of my childhood years hearing "Don't look at your feet, they are there whether you look at them or not." that it simply ingrained itself in my head. My appendages will be there, whether I see them or not, they are in fact attached to me. Though I may not see feet moving forward, they are, and I will be moved from point A to point B. In dance performance this is desirable. You want to be looking up, smiling, be inviting and happy. People like watching faces, not bodies...they look for eyes instinctively, therefore your eyes should be available to the audience. You don't need to be worried about what your feet are doing, you tell them to do a shuffle-heel-toe and they will. More importantly it isn't required to look where your heel is toeing because if everything is working properly the person next to you is also heel-toeing and there will be no one in the way. You move left, they move left simultaneously.
Of course in the real world people do not move exactly the way you do. More over, objects do not move with you. In fact objects don't move at all. They just sit there, being solid and stationary. It's infuriating, I am moving forward, other people are moving toward me, it would stand to reason that I should be looking up, out at the world, and not have to worry about the desk sitting in the way. I'm me. I'm going places. The desk should move out of my way and go places too.
Unfortunately, it never does.
So when ice skating, or swing dancing, or following the ebb and flow of New York City streets I am exceptionally good. My body does what I tell it too, and I'm off. But when I'm thrown that curve ball, that instance where my environment dictates my movement rather than my movement dictating my environment - I'm sunk. And often black and blue.
But at least it's a pretty shade of blue...
(As an unrelated side note, the person who found my page by searching for "Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife" - get it! That book is awesome!)
Monday, November 28, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
If you chase two links...
Okay, I know a lot of other bloggers do this, but I feel guilty that so many people have been looking for these things and found my page. I'm certain this is not what they were looking for when they were searching for:
shepard smith
My Shepard Smith post was about me feeling very ill and adandoned. I'm sure they were looking for pictures of him like this cause he's a cutie!
glasses blind
blind "my glasses" thick
If you are blind...the glasses aren't going to help.
"Civilization IV" +"If you chase two rabbits"
The quotes is "If you chase two rabbits, you will lose both" It's a Russian Proverb. In Russian it goes: Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish'sya, ne odnogo ne poimaesh.
...and yes...Leonard Nemoy says it in Civ IV too.
my nipples rubbing against estrogen
Well there's a fancy trick!
"our thursday" poem
Haven't written a Thursday poem in awhile. Work has been rather busy lately...no time for poems, which I'm sure makes everyone happy...cause my poems suck.
"aussie bites" + cookies
I've been seeing this one on my list for a long time, apparently everyone likes to make "aussie bites". I had never heard of them till we bought them at Costco. Personally I still think they are primarily horse food. If I knew a horse, I'd give him some for Christmas.
There we go...a quick run down of some of the searches that led people here.
I'm sure they were surprised when they got here.
shepard smith
My Shepard Smith post was about me feeling very ill and adandoned. I'm sure they were looking for pictures of him like this cause he's a cutie!
glasses blind
blind "my glasses" thick
If you are blind...the glasses aren't going to help.
"Civilization IV" +"If you chase two rabbits"
The quotes is "If you chase two rabbits, you will lose both" It's a Russian Proverb. In Russian it goes: Za dvumya zaitsami pogonish'sya, ne odnogo ne poimaesh.
...and yes...Leonard Nemoy says it in Civ IV too.
my nipples rubbing against estrogen
Well there's a fancy trick!
"our thursday" poem
Haven't written a Thursday poem in awhile. Work has been rather busy lately...no time for poems, which I'm sure makes everyone happy...cause my poems suck.
"aussie bites" + cookies
I've been seeing this one on my list for a long time, apparently everyone likes to make "aussie bites". I had never heard of them till we bought them at Costco. Personally I still think they are primarily horse food. If I knew a horse, I'd give him some for Christmas.
There we go...a quick run down of some of the searches that led people here.
I'm sure they were surprised when they got here.
Things the make you go...
Something really cool about blogging, and a lot more important A Party Girl Leads China's Online Revolution
"I'm fortunate to live in a transitional society, from a highly political one to a commercial one," she wrote, "and this allows me to enjoy private pleasures, like blogging."
"I'm fortunate to live in a transitional society, from a highly political one to a commercial one," she wrote, "and this allows me to enjoy private pleasures, like blogging."
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Muddy Notice
With bizarre timing as soon as I was gearing to post the latest post (Muddy Actor) my cellphone rings.
The theatre that I auditioned for first called to inform me that the Director no longer wanted me.
No longer? I didn't know he wanted me in the first place. In a rather strange call this woman gave me more information than I believe you are ever supposed to give the rejected. Instead of the nice, clipped and professional: "Thank you for coming out, we won't be requiring your services but we hope you'll come to our auditions for the next production." I got a "You know, he doesn't need you anymore. He did want to use you, then you know, there's this whole family thing and he really hemmed and hawed and couldn't make up his mind. He was going to cast you, but now he's not. We hope you come to the next audition."
You know rejection isn't that bad. Sure there's disappointment, but such is life yes? However, to be told that I actually was going to be picked, then not, then passed over for whatever the "family" thing was. That's just plain mean.
Next time just send a card.
The theatre that I auditioned for first called to inform me that the Director no longer wanted me.
No longer? I didn't know he wanted me in the first place. In a rather strange call this woman gave me more information than I believe you are ever supposed to give the rejected. Instead of the nice, clipped and professional: "Thank you for coming out, we won't be requiring your services but we hope you'll come to our auditions for the next production." I got a "You know, he doesn't need you anymore. He did want to use you, then you know, there's this whole family thing and he really hemmed and hawed and couldn't make up his mind. He was going to cast you, but now he's not. We hope you come to the next audition."
You know rejection isn't that bad. Sure there's disappointment, but such is life yes? However, to be told that I actually was going to be picked, then not, then passed over for whatever the "family" thing was. That's just plain mean.
Next time just send a card.
Muddy Actor
The cellphone slip out of my hand and into the mud. Great. I pick it back up and don't bother to wipe it off before I hold it back up to my face. Maybe the mud will help keep my nose from freezing off as I trudge through the cold, wintery rain to my car on the other side of this country of a campus.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband on the other line, who is incidentally warm and comfy and not having a confidence crisis.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
"It's really cold." I chatter.
"Are you close to the car yet?"
"No, I have half a football field to go."
I carefully pick my way around the soccer and football field. Way across the way I can see a little blue emergency light glowing, but there are no lights where I am. For all I know I am walking along the edge of a cliff overhanging the raging Atlantic rather than a steep muddy hill overhanging a goalpost.
I finally get to my car, crawl into my cushy leather seat and say goodbye to my husband.
I feel like crap. Not just because I'm cold and wet and dirty but because I've done it to myself again. I went to another audition, why do I bother even stepping out of my house?
Sunday was great. I started off for the elusive little theater on the elusive little campus while the sun was still up. After a few wrong turns I'm happily greeted but the big stone sign saying "College of Notre Dame" and I breath a sigh of relief...I found it...and with an hour to spare (and even less sunlight). Unfortunately the stone sign is the last one I see, around and around and around the campus I drive looking for a theater, or an arts center, or for the only direction provided in the notice "Bldg. F". I ask every person I meet, but for some reason the campus is peopled with people who don't attend the school and have no idea where anything it. By pure happenstance I find the library, and much more, a map to the campus. I stomp around the campus, in the dark looking for mysterious Bldg. F and finally find Le Clerc Hall. Well L is only five letters away alphabetically.
Nevermind, it was a bitch to find the audition hall, but I'm there. For twenty minutes I'm the only one there, but finally the director shows up and a few other auditioners. The stage manager. We're all congregated in the hallway talking and laughing. It's a great bunch, small bunch (three people) by great.
I go in, do my monologue (this time I go with Lady Anne, I like her consonants, they give me a good stability) and get great feedback. The director even gives me new direction, I do well with it. I am very good with direction.
He gives me a new monologue and the same thing happens. I nail it. I feel pretty darn good. Can I come for a callback tomorrow night...you bet I can!
Or I can't. The theatre is a thirty minute drive from work. I leave right at five and that gives me one and a half hours to get there. It's raining so I figure I need a little extra time at rush hour. It takes me three hours. Stuck on the beltway, with no cellphone number to reach the director, no way to call the hall, and no one at the companies office I am stuck being that which I hate the most. The late and uncommunicative actor. I hate myself. I hate myself. I'm NEVER late.
I show up, planning to apologize in person and hear the words "Thanks for coming, we don't need you". Instead they're really nice, they let me read, read a lot. But only for one part...though I read a few scenes. I'm feeling pretty strong for the first few, then something happens. Guilt? Nerves? Lack of adrenaline? My hair dried? Something happened and my voice goes up, my stage presence goes down, my sense of space suddenly escapes me and I can't look at my partner. My hand does this stupid sawing thing in the air. Where the heck did that come from. I know I'm doing stupid things, yet can't help it. It's inexplicable. I'm botching it and I know it.
We finish, I say thank you, apologize, then head out again...in the cold rain...to drive another two hours back home. That's when I pick up the phone.
"I fudged it."
"I'm sure you did better than you think you did." he says reassuringly.
I'm not sure. Everyone there has already been part of the company. I'm the newbie and the least comfortable. Why would they want to cast someone who has to have her hands tied behind her back and find the companies flow. I'm screwed.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
Does it? How does it feel to be doing something? Right now it feels useless, hopeless, wet and muddy. I should just give in and be an accountant.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband on the other line, who is incidentally warm and comfy and not having a confidence crisis.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
"It's really cold." I chatter.
"Are you close to the car yet?"
"No, I have half a football field to go."
I carefully pick my way around the soccer and football field. Way across the way I can see a little blue emergency light glowing, but there are no lights where I am. For all I know I am walking along the edge of a cliff overhanging the raging Atlantic rather than a steep muddy hill overhanging a goalpost.
I finally get to my car, crawl into my cushy leather seat and say goodbye to my husband.
I feel like crap. Not just because I'm cold and wet and dirty but because I've done it to myself again. I went to another audition, why do I bother even stepping out of my house?
Sunday was great. I started off for the elusive little theater on the elusive little campus while the sun was still up. After a few wrong turns I'm happily greeted but the big stone sign saying "College of Notre Dame" and I breath a sigh of relief...I found it...and with an hour to spare (and even less sunlight). Unfortunately the stone sign is the last one I see, around and around and around the campus I drive looking for a theater, or an arts center, or for the only direction provided in the notice "Bldg. F". I ask every person I meet, but for some reason the campus is peopled with people who don't attend the school and have no idea where anything it. By pure happenstance I find the library, and much more, a map to the campus. I stomp around the campus, in the dark looking for mysterious Bldg. F and finally find Le Clerc Hall. Well L is only five letters away alphabetically.
Nevermind, it was a bitch to find the audition hall, but I'm there. For twenty minutes I'm the only one there, but finally the director shows up and a few other auditioners. The stage manager. We're all congregated in the hallway talking and laughing. It's a great bunch, small bunch (three people) by great.
I go in, do my monologue (this time I go with Lady Anne, I like her consonants, they give me a good stability) and get great feedback. The director even gives me new direction, I do well with it. I am very good with direction.
He gives me a new monologue and the same thing happens. I nail it. I feel pretty darn good. Can I come for a callback tomorrow night...you bet I can!
Or I can't. The theatre is a thirty minute drive from work. I leave right at five and that gives me one and a half hours to get there. It's raining so I figure I need a little extra time at rush hour. It takes me three hours. Stuck on the beltway, with no cellphone number to reach the director, no way to call the hall, and no one at the companies office I am stuck being that which I hate the most. The late and uncommunicative actor. I hate myself. I hate myself. I'm NEVER late.
I show up, planning to apologize in person and hear the words "Thanks for coming, we don't need you". Instead they're really nice, they let me read, read a lot. But only for one part...though I read a few scenes. I'm feeling pretty strong for the first few, then something happens. Guilt? Nerves? Lack of adrenaline? My hair dried? Something happened and my voice goes up, my stage presence goes down, my sense of space suddenly escapes me and I can't look at my partner. My hand does this stupid sawing thing in the air. Where the heck did that come from. I know I'm doing stupid things, yet can't help it. It's inexplicable. I'm botching it and I know it.
We finish, I say thank you, apologize, then head out again...in the cold rain...to drive another two hours back home. That's when I pick up the phone.
"I fudged it."
"I'm sure you did better than you think you did." he says reassuringly.
I'm not sure. Everyone there has already been part of the company. I'm the newbie and the least comfortable. Why would they want to cast someone who has to have her hands tied behind her back and find the companies flow. I'm screwed.
"Why do I even try anymore?" I whine to my husband.
"Because it makes you happy." He says.
Does it? How does it feel to be doing something? Right now it feels useless, hopeless, wet and muddy. I should just give in and be an accountant.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I don't think anyone is surprised
| Your IQ Is 110 |
 Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Above Average Your General Knowledge is Exceptional |
Below Average Logic? What a surprise!
Good thing they're not grading on coordination...then I'd really be in trouble.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Must be the flu talking
I am lying on the couch, alone. Abandoned to the stomach flu by a husband who still finds the thought of food and ale alluring. The cat braved my company for only slightly longer.
I'm lonely and grouchy and feeling melodramatic. Here I lie rotting away from the inside out and my loving husband decided it was more important to get a pint with the boys. I fantasize about dying from starvation - then I realize I haven't washed my hair and my corpse wouldn't be as pretty as I'd like, skinny, but the curls wouldn't be right. So I fantasize about drinking a whole glass of orange juice instead.
I nap through some cop show and part of the news. My dream are part dancing oranges and part Shepard Smith. With bad make-up. Somehow I wind up watching Interview with the Vampire.
Somewhere between Claudia dying and a commercial for Netscape I hear a deep voice announce.
"And now return to Brad Pitt..."
Yes, I think, because Brad Pitt waits for me.
"...in Interview with the Vampire." The deep voice finishes.
Crap, my husband is drinking beer, and Brad Pitt is drinking blood.
And my glass of orange juice is still full.
I'm lonely and grouchy and feeling melodramatic. Here I lie rotting away from the inside out and my loving husband decided it was more important to get a pint with the boys. I fantasize about dying from starvation - then I realize I haven't washed my hair and my corpse wouldn't be as pretty as I'd like, skinny, but the curls wouldn't be right. So I fantasize about drinking a whole glass of orange juice instead.
I nap through some cop show and part of the news. My dream are part dancing oranges and part Shepard Smith. With bad make-up. Somehow I wind up watching Interview with the Vampire.
Somewhere between Claudia dying and a commercial for Netscape I hear a deep voice announce.
"And now return to Brad Pitt..."
Yes, I think, because Brad Pitt waits for me.
"...in Interview with the Vampire." The deep voice finishes.
Crap, my husband is drinking beer, and Brad Pitt is drinking blood.
And my glass of orange juice is still full.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Woe to the inhabitants on Earth
To make up for the rambling potpourri bowl of nonsense I posted earlier today I've decided to post another article:
2B? NT2B?=???.
A company offering mobile phones to students has hired Professor John Sutherland, professor emeritus of English Literature at University College London, to offer subscribers text message summaries and quotes from literary classics. The hope is that messages in the truncated shorthand of mobile phones will help make great literature more accessible.
"We are confident that our version of 'text' books will genuinely help thousands of students remember key plots and quotes, and raise up educational standards rather than decrease levels of literacy," the company, Dot Mobile, said in a press release.
They have to write out plays, books, and poems in a new language to help kids learn to read our language?
Accessible? What ever happened to putting the book in the kids hand and having them read it? That wasn't accessible enough?
Now, on the whole, I am not against this idea of re-translating something like Shakespeare into the new hip language fad. If Shakespeare is anything, he is adaptable. But the problem I really have is the fact that other people will be doing the translating. If you really want to make people appreciate and identify with great classics, they need to understand them for what they are. I'm a great one for explicating Shakespeare speeches into very simplified paragraphs. Much like my description of Lady Macbeth's famous speech: "This is great news, and you could get a promotion. Except you're too nice" But I can do that because I know that when she says "yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way" that's what she means. I translated it myself and have a better understanding of the text. And thus more hunger to find out what she'll say next.
If the text is explicated for you however, and worse into a shortened form, how would anyone grasp the true magic of these words. The writers who wrote the classics chose certain words to make the reader feel a certain effect. Just knowing that both lovers die at the end of Romeo and Juliet is not enough. We knew they died when we read the prologue...it's why they died, how they died, and who they left behind that resonates with us all.
Especially to a teenage student. What's another dead boy and girl in a sea of dead boys and girls?
I wish instead of trying to make things hip and cool they could let the timeless stories lie. Stop crying about how high-minded it is. Stop intimidating each new reader by assuming we need a translation to understand it. If they are written well and written true, then the audience will get it. If the story and the language reflects something inside us, we don't need translation, we just need time.
Can we stop dumbing stuff down and have a little faith? If a poor guy from Stratford can learn all about mankind and write about it...don't you think a school kid from Milwaukee can read it?
2B? NT2B?=???.
A company offering mobile phones to students has hired Professor John Sutherland, professor emeritus of English Literature at University College London, to offer subscribers text message summaries and quotes from literary classics. The hope is that messages in the truncated shorthand of mobile phones will help make great literature more accessible.
"We are confident that our version of 'text' books will genuinely help thousands of students remember key plots and quotes, and raise up educational standards rather than decrease levels of literacy," the company, Dot Mobile, said in a press release.
They have to write out plays, books, and poems in a new language to help kids learn to read our language?
Accessible? What ever happened to putting the book in the kids hand and having them read it? That wasn't accessible enough?
Now, on the whole, I am not against this idea of re-translating something like Shakespeare into the new hip language fad. If Shakespeare is anything, he is adaptable. But the problem I really have is the fact that other people will be doing the translating. If you really want to make people appreciate and identify with great classics, they need to understand them for what they are. I'm a great one for explicating Shakespeare speeches into very simplified paragraphs. Much like my description of Lady Macbeth's famous speech: "This is great news, and you could get a promotion. Except you're too nice" But I can do that because I know that when she says "yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way" that's what she means. I translated it myself and have a better understanding of the text. And thus more hunger to find out what she'll say next.
If the text is explicated for you however, and worse into a shortened form, how would anyone grasp the true magic of these words. The writers who wrote the classics chose certain words to make the reader feel a certain effect. Just knowing that both lovers die at the end of Romeo and Juliet is not enough. We knew they died when we read the prologue...it's why they died, how they died, and who they left behind that resonates with us all.
Especially to a teenage student. What's another dead boy and girl in a sea of dead boys and girls?
I wish instead of trying to make things hip and cool they could let the timeless stories lie. Stop crying about how high-minded it is. Stop intimidating each new reader by assuming we need a translation to understand it. If they are written well and written true, then the audience will get it. If the story and the language reflects something inside us, we don't need translation, we just need time.
Can we stop dumbing stuff down and have a little faith? If a poor guy from Stratford can learn all about mankind and write about it...don't you think a school kid from Milwaukee can read it?
Confusion at the water-cooler
"Mr. You-know-who isn't here yet. He's running late."
"Uh-oh, I'm not even going to get into that story." Nick says, one of my favorite male co-workers.
"Yeah, family stuff again, then you know how it goes." I say vaguely.
"Oh really? What did his wife make him do now?" says Mary my fellow schedule lady.
"Gee...why don't you tell us how you really feel?" counters the male.
"Listen, there is a thing that makes a man a man."
"Sturdy digestion?" he jokes.
"Oh! That's why they say the way to a mans heart is through his...." I wink and pat my stomach as I taper off.
"All I know is I would never tell my husband what to do. There is a certain way things work. There is a certain something that makes him a man and you don't do that to him."
We both nod at Mary. I'm not sure what Nick thinks, but I'm too confused to either agree or disagree with her. Nodding works.
(Names have been changed to protect the catty.)
The guy in question has missed quite a few days at his wife's insistence. Including one particularly fateful week where he went AWOL then pinned the blame on me and stood by as I was called out onto the carpet. Even though it was a crappy thing to do, I can't help but feel sorry whenever I hear his sob stories. And, I have to admit, I'm a little disgusted at how pussy-whipped he is.
I know, deep down, that it's not fair to judge other relationships. Or even other peoples views of gender roles. But sometimes I find myself agree almost wholeheartedly with Mary's statement: "There is a thing that makes a man a man."
Of course I'm biased. I'm currently at a phase in my life where pure, raw, rough, dominant masculinity is attractive to me. You could call it genetic - I'm young and of the perfect age for breeding. Right now I want the biggest, strongest, baddest gorilla so my children will be the biggest, strongest, gorilla babies. Well - hopefully my babies won't look like gorillas, but you get the point.
Or instead of calling it genetic you could call it cultural. Guinevere fell for Lancelot, Cathy andIsabella fell for Heathcliff, Leia fell for Han. The bad boys, the defiantly macho guys are the style. Always have been. Who doesn't at some point want a brute.
Or rather than any influences at all I may be looking for that manly man simply cause I'm me, and I come with a lot of desires that fall in the darker side of passion.
Not for me is the fairytale with a princess being swept gently off her feet and slowly wooed. No, in my fairytale I'm a rogue girl, stealing from the princesses travelling through the forest - and he is even more of a brigand than I.
Shut-up, it's a good fantasy. And probably not so uncommon, because in my fantasy I am the one who ultimately submits.
There's been a big elephant stomping around for sometime now. The adult blogs I link to aren't just there because of their lovely art and prose - they're there because they deal with topics that are close to my heart...and stomach...and quite frankly my ass. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can. I like spanking, and the idea of dominance and submission as ying/yang concepts. And I like the idea of ropes and wax and quite honestly pain. It's sexy. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can.
When I was younger my morbid side came out in the form of a large collection of skulls, bones, and blood (fake - though there was this one time at a my girlfriends house...). I spent a lot of time in graveyards (I never said I was original) and more time daydreaming in the land of gruesome, cruel, gross nightmare land. I read a lot of Anne Rice, and even more de Sade. Quite frankly I think my fascination with modern Sadism and Masochism is an improvement. At least I'm not building prisons and guillotines for my barbies anymore.
But possibly because of my leaning toward a deviant sex life I prefer men who fit into the style. Yes, I know women are just as controlling and domineering as men, but as much as I like women, and as sexy as they are, there is nothing quite so delicious as the thought of a man who is capable of putting his foot down and has no fear of being in charge. You can be mild mannered, or firey. Discreet or loud. But there is something that makes a man a man. Mary is right, it just makes me feel - deflated - to think of Mr. You-Know-Who being battered and bossed around by his wife. If only instead of chewing my ear for an hour everyday he could simply put his foot down. Tell her to shush, tell her to start pulling her weight or expect to be pulled over his knee. Or even, just possibly, tell her no.
Being a navy wife I have a strong disdain for women who can't "do" without their husbands. Heck, mine was gone for years and I managed to move an entire household across the country on my own. If I can do that, other women can direct a plumber to the broken sink. I also have a strong disdain for women who expect their husbands to leave work at the drop of a hat for them. But even as I hate childish women like that and pity their husbands, I always wonder why he can't just tell her to settle down and wait? Am I wrong in thinking a man has a right to expect support from his spouse? Am I wrong to believe that a wife's job, among other things, is to provide a soft place to land after a hard day? Am I wrong to think that when a woman refuses to act like an adult her spouse has the right to point her in the right direction?
If the things that make us women are compassion, softness, and maternal instinct - why can't the thing that makes them men be firmness, strength and guiding care? What's wrong with being impenetrable?
Perhaps the thing that so confuses me about Mary's statement is the fact that the thing that makes a man a man is a woman who's willing to be a woman.
And vice versa.
"Uh-oh, I'm not even going to get into that story." Nick says, one of my favorite male co-workers.
"Yeah, family stuff again, then you know how it goes." I say vaguely.
"Oh really? What did his wife make him do now?" says Mary my fellow schedule lady.
"Gee...why don't you tell us how you really feel?" counters the male.
"Listen, there is a thing that makes a man a man."
"Sturdy digestion?" he jokes.
"Oh! That's why they say the way to a mans heart is through his...." I wink and pat my stomach as I taper off.
"All I know is I would never tell my husband what to do. There is a certain way things work. There is a certain something that makes him a man and you don't do that to him."
We both nod at Mary. I'm not sure what Nick thinks, but I'm too confused to either agree or disagree with her. Nodding works.
(Names have been changed to protect the catty.)
The guy in question has missed quite a few days at his wife's insistence. Including one particularly fateful week where he went AWOL then pinned the blame on me and stood by as I was called out onto the carpet. Even though it was a crappy thing to do, I can't help but feel sorry whenever I hear his sob stories. And, I have to admit, I'm a little disgusted at how pussy-whipped he is.
I know, deep down, that it's not fair to judge other relationships. Or even other peoples views of gender roles. But sometimes I find myself agree almost wholeheartedly with Mary's statement: "There is a thing that makes a man a man."
Of course I'm biased. I'm currently at a phase in my life where pure, raw, rough, dominant masculinity is attractive to me. You could call it genetic - I'm young and of the perfect age for breeding. Right now I want the biggest, strongest, baddest gorilla so my children will be the biggest, strongest, gorilla babies. Well - hopefully my babies won't look like gorillas, but you get the point.
Or instead of calling it genetic you could call it cultural. Guinevere fell for Lancelot, Cathy andIsabella fell for Heathcliff, Leia fell for Han. The bad boys, the defiantly macho guys are the style. Always have been. Who doesn't at some point want a brute.
Or rather than any influences at all I may be looking for that manly man simply cause I'm me, and I come with a lot of desires that fall in the darker side of passion.
Not for me is the fairytale with a princess being swept gently off her feet and slowly wooed. No, in my fairytale I'm a rogue girl, stealing from the princesses travelling through the forest - and he is even more of a brigand than I.
Shut-up, it's a good fantasy. And probably not so uncommon, because in my fantasy I am the one who ultimately submits.
There's been a big elephant stomping around for sometime now. The adult blogs I link to aren't just there because of their lovely art and prose - they're there because they deal with topics that are close to my heart...and stomach...and quite frankly my ass. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can. I like spanking, and the idea of dominance and submission as ying/yang concepts. And I like the idea of ropes and wax and quite honestly pain. It's sexy. However, I am no where near as focused and far too sexually shy (yes still) to be able to blog as effectively as they can.
When I was younger my morbid side came out in the form of a large collection of skulls, bones, and blood (fake - though there was this one time at a my girlfriends house...). I spent a lot of time in graveyards (I never said I was original) and more time daydreaming in the land of gruesome, cruel, gross nightmare land. I read a lot of Anne Rice, and even more de Sade. Quite frankly I think my fascination with modern Sadism and Masochism is an improvement. At least I'm not building prisons and guillotines for my barbies anymore.
But possibly because of my leaning toward a deviant sex life I prefer men who fit into the style. Yes, I know women are just as controlling and domineering as men, but as much as I like women, and as sexy as they are, there is nothing quite so delicious as the thought of a man who is capable of putting his foot down and has no fear of being in charge. You can be mild mannered, or firey. Discreet or loud. But there is something that makes a man a man. Mary is right, it just makes me feel - deflated - to think of Mr. You-Know-Who being battered and bossed around by his wife. If only instead of chewing my ear for an hour everyday he could simply put his foot down. Tell her to shush, tell her to start pulling her weight or expect to be pulled over his knee. Or even, just possibly, tell her no.
Being a navy wife I have a strong disdain for women who can't "do" without their husbands. Heck, mine was gone for years and I managed to move an entire household across the country on my own. If I can do that, other women can direct a plumber to the broken sink. I also have a strong disdain for women who expect their husbands to leave work at the drop of a hat for them. But even as I hate childish women like that and pity their husbands, I always wonder why he can't just tell her to settle down and wait? Am I wrong in thinking a man has a right to expect support from his spouse? Am I wrong to believe that a wife's job, among other things, is to provide a soft place to land after a hard day? Am I wrong to think that when a woman refuses to act like an adult her spouse has the right to point her in the right direction?
If the things that make us women are compassion, softness, and maternal instinct - why can't the thing that makes them men be firmness, strength and guiding care? What's wrong with being impenetrable?
Perhaps the thing that so confuses me about Mary's statement is the fact that the thing that makes a man a man is a woman who's willing to be a woman.
And vice versa.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
I happen to like purple
| Your Blog Should Be Purple |
 You're an expressive, offbeat blogger who tends to write about anything and everything. You tend to set blogging trends, and you're the most likely to write your own meme or survey. You are a bit distant though. Your blog is all about you - not what anyone else has to say. |
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Crossing the Boards: Step NONE
Saturday I found myself winding around some remote area of B'more, following "Detour to ********* St. Business" signs alternately muttering Shakespeare lines and "Don't wash my windshield...don't! stop!" at the world around me.
Apparently the new street-gang prank to play is turning the street signs cockeyed...I'm on Main St - I'm not on Main St - I'm on Main St again - I'm driving off a pier...
Fortunately I managed to find this warehouse-turn-office without going for a swim. And once I parked I suddenly felt a huge rush of joy. I was going to an audition. For months my verve, my energy, my happy-go-lucky-girl-who-skips-for-no-reason self had been hidden. Then all at once she was back. I was genuinely happy, smiling...when I walked I bounced. It's been awhile since I've been that undepressed.
In fact, the last time I was this undepressed...I was quitting theatre.
The audition was great. The kind I like. No theatre games, no "pretend you are a tree". I walked in, I did my monologue, got a side, read my side...went home. Short, sweet, and I did very well for myself. In fact - I was good.
And I was happy. Driving home I was feeling that strange euphoric calm that comes from expending too much adrenaline too fast. It was fabulous. I felt like the embodiment of "rosy". I wasn't out of breath or exhausted, I was just rested and tired at the same time. I was relaxed. I was excited. Really - I was sated.
I kept my rose colored glasses all the way home, kept it through the chores I finished in a Snow White-esque scene where I was humming and singing, and yeah, whistling while I worked. I kept them on as I curled up on the couch, a book in hand, a soft blanket, a cat. Waiting for my husband to get home so I could tell him all about it.
Sometime between curling up and him coming home - the glasses fell off and was replaced with a little voice. What are you doing?
I shrugged it off. I knew what I was doing...I was getting a little booster shot of joy. Just a taste to tide me through the holiday season. I hadn't even bothered to bring my cellphone in from the car. The audition was all I needed.
Still I heard it whispering Who are you kidding?
Sunday I found myself skipping through the parking lot of our mall. Indulging in bad chinese food and smelly girly stuff from Bath & Body Works. The day was gorgeous, I was gorgeous, my husband was gorgeous. I was feeling good and it wasn't because of theatre. See...all I needed was a kick start.
Are you really sure?
I ignored the voice as best I could until I realized that I had checked my cellphone maybe five times in the course of one day. Rare, seeing as how I normally don't check my phone at all on weekends. I was checking for a call from the theatre.
Crap! I'm like a cocaine addict. One little snort at a party and suddenly I'm sitting in a crack den offering blow jobs for another line.
What am I doing? I shouldn't be doing theatre, I shouldn't be auditioning. One audition leads to another and another and another. I keep searching for that little rosy glow I get...and before I know it I'm dealing with all kinds of abuse just to get there. That glow is bad...that glow is poison...it keeps sucking the life out of me.
My stupid little voice is laughing at me. It knows I want to do a play, want to get involved with a company, it knows I would do anything to do more theatre - and it's all because I went to that stupid audition.
I should be planning for winter term, I should be going to school.
What the hell am I doing?
Why do I keep putting a hundred percent into the parts of my life that keep me down, theatre, marriage, dead-end job - and give up, sacrifice, the parts that could make me more than what I am? Why do I keep choosing abuse and submission over activity?
Stupid audition, stupid play.
Apparently the new street-gang prank to play is turning the street signs cockeyed...I'm on Main St - I'm not on Main St - I'm on Main St again - I'm driving off a pier...
Fortunately I managed to find this warehouse-turn-office without going for a swim. And once I parked I suddenly felt a huge rush of joy. I was going to an audition. For months my verve, my energy, my happy-go-lucky-girl-who-skips-for-no-reason self had been hidden. Then all at once she was back. I was genuinely happy, smiling...when I walked I bounced. It's been awhile since I've been that undepressed.
In fact, the last time I was this undepressed...I was quitting theatre.
The audition was great. The kind I like. No theatre games, no "pretend you are a tree". I walked in, I did my monologue, got a side, read my side...went home. Short, sweet, and I did very well for myself. In fact - I was good.
And I was happy. Driving home I was feeling that strange euphoric calm that comes from expending too much adrenaline too fast. It was fabulous. I felt like the embodiment of "rosy". I wasn't out of breath or exhausted, I was just rested and tired at the same time. I was relaxed. I was excited. Really - I was sated.
I kept my rose colored glasses all the way home, kept it through the chores I finished in a Snow White-esque scene where I was humming and singing, and yeah, whistling while I worked. I kept them on as I curled up on the couch, a book in hand, a soft blanket, a cat. Waiting for my husband to get home so I could tell him all about it.
Sometime between curling up and him coming home - the glasses fell off and was replaced with a little voice. What are you doing?
I shrugged it off. I knew what I was doing...I was getting a little booster shot of joy. Just a taste to tide me through the holiday season. I hadn't even bothered to bring my cellphone in from the car. The audition was all I needed.
Still I heard it whispering Who are you kidding?
Sunday I found myself skipping through the parking lot of our mall. Indulging in bad chinese food and smelly girly stuff from Bath & Body Works. The day was gorgeous, I was gorgeous, my husband was gorgeous. I was feeling good and it wasn't because of theatre. See...all I needed was a kick start.
Are you really sure?
I ignored the voice as best I could until I realized that I had checked my cellphone maybe five times in the course of one day. Rare, seeing as how I normally don't check my phone at all on weekends. I was checking for a call from the theatre.
Crap! I'm like a cocaine addict. One little snort at a party and suddenly I'm sitting in a crack den offering blow jobs for another line.
What am I doing? I shouldn't be doing theatre, I shouldn't be auditioning. One audition leads to another and another and another. I keep searching for that little rosy glow I get...and before I know it I'm dealing with all kinds of abuse just to get there. That glow is bad...that glow is poison...it keeps sucking the life out of me.
My stupid little voice is laughing at me. It knows I want to do a play, want to get involved with a company, it knows I would do anything to do more theatre - and it's all because I went to that stupid audition.
I should be planning for winter term, I should be going to school.
What the hell am I doing?
Why do I keep putting a hundred percent into the parts of my life that keep me down, theatre, marriage, dead-end job - and give up, sacrifice, the parts that could make me more than what I am? Why do I keep choosing abuse and submission over activity?
Stupid audition, stupid play.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Conspiracy
Last night we stayed up late drinking the new barley wine at our favorite watering hole. Instead of well thought out posts about stuff I need to be doing for my audition I am posting strange links.
http://people.csail.mit.edu/rahimi/helmet/
http://people.csail.mit.edu/rahimi/helmet/
Head Scratcher
I consider myself an intelligent person. I have, at least, a good handle on reading comprehension. But sometimes, during the course of my work, I come across something I just do not understand. Is it me? Is there a hidden corporate lingo only known to those that inhabit the fancy boardrooms? Is it the new hip thing to be redundant AND confusing?
Given the fluid nature of our structure at this time, it is not prudent to bring in a ****** at this time.
Call me dumb, but I don't get it.
Given the fluid nature of our structure at this time, it is not prudent to bring in a ****** at this time.
Call me dumb, but I don't get it.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Crossing the Boards: Step 1
This past weekend we went to see "The Tragedy of Coriolanus" at a local theatre. It was good, almost too modernized, but still it was good.
The play was more than just a play, it was the tipping point, the tempting sip if you will, of an attempt to break a bad habit.
You see, I am addicted to theater. I love it. I love watching it, I love working in it, I love the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way it smells. Even the way it tastes. I adore it.
The theater however does not love me back. Filled with many young kids looking for an easy and fun major, many full-grown adults looking for a way to skirt adulthood, and far too many people who missed the day when responsibility, duty, and organization were taught in their respective childhoods. The theatre is a place where I would gladly give out my blood, sweat, and tears - in fact my obsessive workaholic personality triples in the theatre - but the rewards for my very life essence are low and uninteresting. Usually it's a kick in the teeth, served with a smile.
This is not because I don't get cast in things, on the contrary, I get cast in a lot of things. However, I am usually the only one in the cast who has any concept of organization and punctuality, which means I am usually asked to do things that are very "administrative assistant" like...something I try to avoid seeing as how I spend a good 50-60 hours a week doing that.
Because of the psyche-poisoning effects of theatre, and the fact my husband gets grumpy when I spend all my time at rehearsal (a necessity), I resolved this spring to go cold-turkey and quit theatre all together. No more being in plays, no more classes, no more reading plays, no more seeing plays, no more Sundance Channel. No more listening to tapes of Shakespearean Actors, no more Musical theatre cd's. None. I quit, I'm walking away. I am even searching for a new major rather than finishing the theatre one. No more theatre.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have fallen off the wagon. I am now in danger of being run over by the wagon...and probably the horse it came in with...
After reading that horrid book (See "Waste of Paper") and the play. After re-reading King Lear (for fun). After putting away all my scripts in alphabetical order. And worse of all, after some punk kid who has no idea said that he was a "better actor" than I was, I gave up. And at the same time a tantalizing audition with a "grown-up" company for "The Imaginary Invalid". My name is in and now the preparation begins.
Step One: Pick a monologue. Thankfully, I already have a large repertoire and memorize things very quickly. Below is the choosen monologue.
JULIA
This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation!
Tears the letter
JULIA
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one on another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
The play was more than just a play, it was the tipping point, the tempting sip if you will, of an attempt to break a bad habit.
You see, I am addicted to theater. I love it. I love watching it, I love working in it, I love the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way it smells. Even the way it tastes. I adore it.
The theater however does not love me back. Filled with many young kids looking for an easy and fun major, many full-grown adults looking for a way to skirt adulthood, and far too many people who missed the day when responsibility, duty, and organization were taught in their respective childhoods. The theatre is a place where I would gladly give out my blood, sweat, and tears - in fact my obsessive workaholic personality triples in the theatre - but the rewards for my very life essence are low and uninteresting. Usually it's a kick in the teeth, served with a smile.
This is not because I don't get cast in things, on the contrary, I get cast in a lot of things. However, I am usually the only one in the cast who has any concept of organization and punctuality, which means I am usually asked to do things that are very "administrative assistant" like...something I try to avoid seeing as how I spend a good 50-60 hours a week doing that.
Because of the psyche-poisoning effects of theatre, and the fact my husband gets grumpy when I spend all my time at rehearsal (a necessity), I resolved this spring to go cold-turkey and quit theatre all together. No more being in plays, no more classes, no more reading plays, no more seeing plays, no more Sundance Channel. No more listening to tapes of Shakespearean Actors, no more Musical theatre cd's. None. I quit, I'm walking away. I am even searching for a new major rather than finishing the theatre one. No more theatre.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have fallen off the wagon. I am now in danger of being run over by the wagon...and probably the horse it came in with...
After reading that horrid book (See "Waste of Paper") and the play. After re-reading King Lear (for fun). After putting away all my scripts in alphabetical order. And worse of all, after some punk kid who has no idea said that he was a "better actor" than I was, I gave up. And at the same time a tantalizing audition with a "grown-up" company for "The Imaginary Invalid". My name is in and now the preparation begins.
Step One: Pick a monologue. Thankfully, I already have a large repertoire and memorize things very quickly. Below is the choosen monologue.
JULIA
This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation!
Tears the letter
JULIA
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one on another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Luscious
Is there anyway to eat a strawberry but sensuously?
Honestly? Have you even seen someone pick up a strawberry and crush it with their molars, gnawing it into strawberry goo? No? Neither have I. It'd be a crime too. Strawberries are meant to be enjoyed, savored and by extension they make you adored, desired.
They look so soft. So delicate and gentle. The little seeds and bumps just make them look like pillows. Dark, red, pillows. Like the sexy red satin sheets you find in bachelor pads. If the crown were leopard print rather than green strawberries would only be sold in sex shops. I can't imagine grabbing strawberries by the handful. You can't just palm a berry and rush off. You need to pick it up with two fingers, gently. Treat it like fine china. You don't want it to pop too soon, don't want the sticky sweet on your fingers. No, walk your fingers up slowly and softly till you've got the thing by the hair. Drag the tips along it's skin till you can get a good hold of it. Let the leaves tickle your hand before taking it in hand.
And the shape! That bell! That point! You can gentle wrap your lips around it, caress it. If you're me you'll slide the tip of your tongue around and delight in the small jabs each seed makes. Either way it's warming up. Can't you feel it swell, still soft and lush against your mouth. It might as well be kissing you back. How can you not feel a sensual warmth build up in you as your teeth press down. Doesn't it feel like a crescendo when it finally gives that final "pop" and instead of earthy fruit you taste sweet, tangy strawberry. So much more that a fruit, so much more than a kiss. This isn't the food of the gods, no, this is the food of the earth, this is dirty, sticky, tangy, base. This is human, this is wild and untamed. It's sour and sweet and fills your mouth completely. There's juice all over your lips - and how can you resist dragging the tip of your tongue over it, sucking on that soft skin, as soft as the strawberry, licking it all away. Greedy, greedy.
Even when you're mean it's sweet. Even if you pull your lips all the way away from it, sliding the berry between your sharp incisors. Even when you bite hard and rough, kinky and bad. Even if your naughty with it - the fruit is sweet. The reward is delicious. No matter what, you'll know you'll be fulfilled.
And how can anyone not watch this show and be mesmerized. Do you really want to turn away when you see someone lift that red piece of ecstasy to their mouths? Man, woman, ugly or beautiful, there is something about the strawberry that makes them enticing. When I watch I feel a twinge of envy...wouldn't it be nice to be there. Be the enjoyer, be the enjoyed.
And can't you feel eyes on you as you lift that little soft, firm, bursting red bell to your mouth. Don't you know you're being watched? Someone, somewhere is getting their fill of you from afar. Getting their fill of that strawberry. Somewhere in the shadows, someone is sharing an intimate moment with you, and you will never know who it is. Oh sure, you may be able to look up and catch someone's eyes...but will you really know if it's them or someone else? And can you keep from blushing as red as your treat? Can they keep from devouring you as wholly as you did the berry?
Is there anyway to eat a strawberry other than sensuously?
Honestly? Have you even seen someone pick up a strawberry and crush it with their molars, gnawing it into strawberry goo? No? Neither have I. It'd be a crime too. Strawberries are meant to be enjoyed, savored and by extension they make you adored, desired.
They look so soft. So delicate and gentle. The little seeds and bumps just make them look like pillows. Dark, red, pillows. Like the sexy red satin sheets you find in bachelor pads. If the crown were leopard print rather than green strawberries would only be sold in sex shops. I can't imagine grabbing strawberries by the handful. You can't just palm a berry and rush off. You need to pick it up with two fingers, gently. Treat it like fine china. You don't want it to pop too soon, don't want the sticky sweet on your fingers. No, walk your fingers up slowly and softly till you've got the thing by the hair. Drag the tips along it's skin till you can get a good hold of it. Let the leaves tickle your hand before taking it in hand.
And the shape! That bell! That point! You can gentle wrap your lips around it, caress it. If you're me you'll slide the tip of your tongue around and delight in the small jabs each seed makes. Either way it's warming up. Can't you feel it swell, still soft and lush against your mouth. It might as well be kissing you back. How can you not feel a sensual warmth build up in you as your teeth press down. Doesn't it feel like a crescendo when it finally gives that final "pop" and instead of earthy fruit you taste sweet, tangy strawberry. So much more that a fruit, so much more than a kiss. This isn't the food of the gods, no, this is the food of the earth, this is dirty, sticky, tangy, base. This is human, this is wild and untamed. It's sour and sweet and fills your mouth completely. There's juice all over your lips - and how can you resist dragging the tip of your tongue over it, sucking on that soft skin, as soft as the strawberry, licking it all away. Greedy, greedy.
Even when you're mean it's sweet. Even if you pull your lips all the way away from it, sliding the berry between your sharp incisors. Even when you bite hard and rough, kinky and bad. Even if your naughty with it - the fruit is sweet. The reward is delicious. No matter what, you'll know you'll be fulfilled.
And how can anyone not watch this show and be mesmerized. Do you really want to turn away when you see someone lift that red piece of ecstasy to their mouths? Man, woman, ugly or beautiful, there is something about the strawberry that makes them enticing. When I watch I feel a twinge of envy...wouldn't it be nice to be there. Be the enjoyer, be the enjoyed.
And can't you feel eyes on you as you lift that little soft, firm, bursting red bell to your mouth. Don't you know you're being watched? Someone, somewhere is getting their fill of you from afar. Getting their fill of that strawberry. Somewhere in the shadows, someone is sharing an intimate moment with you, and you will never know who it is. Oh sure, you may be able to look up and catch someone's eyes...but will you really know if it's them or someone else? And can you keep from blushing as red as your treat? Can they keep from devouring you as wholly as you did the berry?
Is there anyway to eat a strawberry other than sensuously?
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Waste of Paper
I'm restless, distraught, depressed, put-out. Today I finally shut the cover for good on a truly bad book.
There is a bad taste in my mouth.
I've never been finicky about my reading. I'll crack open anything, granted I may not finish it, but I will give it a good go. And when I was younger, living in a house that was literally bursting at the seams with books, it wasn't so bad. Read a few chapters of this book or that and if it was swill you could simply reach your hand out for something else.
Now that I live in a house with less books (and one that begs order - like you know - actually making the books live on shelves) reading a bad book seems less palatable - more tragic.
This particular book I started months ago, and was instantly struck by it's complete and utter suckiness. I went through whole chapters just letting my eyes fall down the page. I read every word, but had no idea what it was I had read. I would go back and try again only to realize how much I didn't want to know what I had missed.
But still, I had paid $4.95 (bargain book bin!) for this book, and it is about one of my favorite subjects, so I persevered. And a few days ago it finally started to pick up. It had elements that started to interest me. I was fueled by my anger over the first part and my hope for the second. It had some promise. I wanted to know what was going to happen, the writing was still crap, the subplots were still cumbersome and in the way, but I didn't need "Climbing Mt. Everest" willpower to get to the next page.
It felt much like I'd been hiking under misty, cold, clammy clouds and finally the sun was threatening to break through.
And it felt like that all the way to the end. I had this hope that at the next page everything would resolve into something satisfactory. I would be rewarded for my diligence, I paid for the dinner, I would get my time in the sack. Something in the next few words would make it all possible.
Third to the last page - nothing.
Second to the last page - nada.
Last page, last chance, this page is getting very short, where is it, I know there is something here, some gem, some treasure that only is given to those that stick it out. The last few lines will be a wealth of knowledge, of joy, it will bring me satisfaction, it will bring me peace.
Nothing. Trite, sentimental, disjointed crap. That's okay for my blog, but not for a book.
I finished the book right before dinner and have been saddened ever since. All I want to do is curl up and cry, no I want to keen. I want to rock myself until I'm dizzy, I want to wail and moan until I feel less betrayed.
Why? Why? Why would they make this a book? Why would they tempt someone like me with it. Why was it so booky? So alluring and sexy sitting in a box, a shiny cover wrapped around a nice thick hardback. It was such a perfect book, the perfect weight, the perfect size. The promise of a literary adventure, smart, intellectual, the kind of thing to make you yearn for a library. It promised a mind-trip to London, to the inner-depths of the British Library, it promised fun love and reading joy. I could picture myself curled up outside, leaning against a tree, an apple in my hand as I looked down at the sweet words filling my lap.
It tempted me with a reading fantasy of the first order.
It promised so much. Then it committed the ultimate crime, it challenged you. Like a kung fu movie, where the apprentice must go through hell before he learns the secrets of his master, the book made you trudge through bad exposition and stupid characterization before you could learn how to do the five-fingered-butterfly-poke. And so, I read, and was lead on by a good paragraph here and there, a spark of imagination, a promising whisper that the rest of the book would lead me to nirvana.
And yet, for all it's seduction, all it's promising, it's flirting, it's teasing - it didn't put out.
Instead I'm frustrated, saddened, confused. It seems a crime that just any book can get published. I've read many a manuscript from friends that actually are very good. I've read ones that may need a little work, but have great promise. None of them are books, none of them are ever given that great honor. And yet I can go to Borders and pick up a hundred books that deserve to be locked up in a basement and never spoken of again. Don't publishers know that there are people out there who live for books? People who choose to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune only because we know that next book is right around the corner. Do they know how painful it is to realize that the book, the holy thing they hold in their hand, is really only some authors mid-life crisis - published because she has "friends" in the business?
I feel sick, hot, angered and beaten down. I take this seriously, I want to love books, I don't want to hate them. I want that high that comes from completing a story that will live on in me.
I don't want swill to live on in me. I don't want bad characters with bad stories to whisper bad prose in my head. If I'm going to be crazy obsessed, at least allow me to be crazy obsessed with good figments of my imagination.
But mostly, as I curl into a little ball, saddened by my latest literary fix, I feel betrayed. I feel betrayed that I gave this woman the benefit of the doubt - and she didn't come through. I had faith in her, as I have faith in all authors, and she didn't rise to the challenge.
Oh bitterest of disappointments - betrayal of the most henious kind - most disgusting poison of the mind.
What a waste of paper.
There is a bad taste in my mouth.
I've never been finicky about my reading. I'll crack open anything, granted I may not finish it, but I will give it a good go. And when I was younger, living in a house that was literally bursting at the seams with books, it wasn't so bad. Read a few chapters of this book or that and if it was swill you could simply reach your hand out for something else.
Now that I live in a house with less books (and one that begs order - like you know - actually making the books live on shelves) reading a bad book seems less palatable - more tragic.
This particular book I started months ago, and was instantly struck by it's complete and utter suckiness. I went through whole chapters just letting my eyes fall down the page. I read every word, but had no idea what it was I had read. I would go back and try again only to realize how much I didn't want to know what I had missed.
But still, I had paid $4.95 (bargain book bin!) for this book, and it is about one of my favorite subjects, so I persevered. And a few days ago it finally started to pick up. It had elements that started to interest me. I was fueled by my anger over the first part and my hope for the second. It had some promise. I wanted to know what was going to happen, the writing was still crap, the subplots were still cumbersome and in the way, but I didn't need "Climbing Mt. Everest" willpower to get to the next page.
It felt much like I'd been hiking under misty, cold, clammy clouds and finally the sun was threatening to break through.
And it felt like that all the way to the end. I had this hope that at the next page everything would resolve into something satisfactory. I would be rewarded for my diligence, I paid for the dinner, I would get my time in the sack. Something in the next few words would make it all possible.
Third to the last page - nothing.
Second to the last page - nada.
Last page, last chance, this page is getting very short, where is it, I know there is something here, some gem, some treasure that only is given to those that stick it out. The last few lines will be a wealth of knowledge, of joy, it will bring me satisfaction, it will bring me peace.
Nothing. Trite, sentimental, disjointed crap. That's okay for my blog, but not for a book.
I finished the book right before dinner and have been saddened ever since. All I want to do is curl up and cry, no I want to keen. I want to rock myself until I'm dizzy, I want to wail and moan until I feel less betrayed.
Why? Why? Why would they make this a book? Why would they tempt someone like me with it. Why was it so booky? So alluring and sexy sitting in a box, a shiny cover wrapped around a nice thick hardback. It was such a perfect book, the perfect weight, the perfect size. The promise of a literary adventure, smart, intellectual, the kind of thing to make you yearn for a library. It promised a mind-trip to London, to the inner-depths of the British Library, it promised fun love and reading joy. I could picture myself curled up outside, leaning against a tree, an apple in my hand as I looked down at the sweet words filling my lap.
It tempted me with a reading fantasy of the first order.
It promised so much. Then it committed the ultimate crime, it challenged you. Like a kung fu movie, where the apprentice must go through hell before he learns the secrets of his master, the book made you trudge through bad exposition and stupid characterization before you could learn how to do the five-fingered-butterfly-poke. And so, I read, and was lead on by a good paragraph here and there, a spark of imagination, a promising whisper that the rest of the book would lead me to nirvana.
And yet, for all it's seduction, all it's promising, it's flirting, it's teasing - it didn't put out.
Instead I'm frustrated, saddened, confused. It seems a crime that just any book can get published. I've read many a manuscript from friends that actually are very good. I've read ones that may need a little work, but have great promise. None of them are books, none of them are ever given that great honor. And yet I can go to Borders and pick up a hundred books that deserve to be locked up in a basement and never spoken of again. Don't publishers know that there are people out there who live for books? People who choose to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune only because we know that next book is right around the corner. Do they know how painful it is to realize that the book, the holy thing they hold in their hand, is really only some authors mid-life crisis - published because she has "friends" in the business?
I feel sick, hot, angered and beaten down. I take this seriously, I want to love books, I don't want to hate them. I want that high that comes from completing a story that will live on in me.
I don't want swill to live on in me. I don't want bad characters with bad stories to whisper bad prose in my head. If I'm going to be crazy obsessed, at least allow me to be crazy obsessed with good figments of my imagination.
But mostly, as I curl into a little ball, saddened by my latest literary fix, I feel betrayed. I feel betrayed that I gave this woman the benefit of the doubt - and she didn't come through. I had faith in her, as I have faith in all authors, and she didn't rise to the challenge.
Oh bitterest of disappointments - betrayal of the most henious kind - most disgusting poison of the mind.
What a waste of paper.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Star Trekking Across Civilization
Civilization IV came out. My husband of course bought it.
While I enjoyed Civilization III because it had cute sayings like "Your soldiers are harassing women and stealing chickens" Civ IV brings a whole new type of creepy to contend with:
Leonard Nemoy.
My husbands computer now spouts random, and often useless, sayings as performed by Dr. Spock. It's really freaky.
"So, hey, want to get some Indian for dinner?"
"If you chase two rabbits; you shall lose both of them." says Mr. Nemoy.
"Er, okay...I don't think they make rabbit marsala...."
"Hath not the potter have power over the clay to make one vessel into honor and one into dishonor?"
"I'm sure they have china plates at the restaurant."
"Giddy-up"
Huh?
"Giddy-up"
Oh...that was a soldier getting on a horse...not Leonard Nemoy. He doesn't ride horses.
"The lord bless you and keep you..."
"Oh shut up."
"The lord lift his...:
"Seriously shut-up...go mind meld with something!"
"I am the lord thy God; you shall have no other God before me."
"You're a little smug aren't you?"
"Live long and..."
That's it...I'm beaming myself to bed!
While I enjoyed Civilization III because it had cute sayings like "Your soldiers are harassing women and stealing chickens" Civ IV brings a whole new type of creepy to contend with:
Leonard Nemoy.
My husbands computer now spouts random, and often useless, sayings as performed by Dr. Spock. It's really freaky.
"So, hey, want to get some Indian for dinner?"
"If you chase two rabbits; you shall lose both of them." says Mr. Nemoy.
"Er, okay...I don't think they make rabbit marsala...."
"Hath not the potter have power over the clay to make one vessel into honor and one into dishonor?"
"I'm sure they have china plates at the restaurant."
"Giddy-up"
Huh?
"Giddy-up"
Oh...that was a soldier getting on a horse...not Leonard Nemoy. He doesn't ride horses.
"The lord bless you and keep you..."
"Oh shut up."
"The lord lift his...:
"Seriously shut-up...go mind meld with something!"
"I am the lord thy God; you shall have no other God before me."
"You're a little smug aren't you?"
"Live long and..."
That's it...I'm beaming myself to bed!
Young'un
When I was younger I was described as the five year old going on fifty. Then the ten year old going on one-hundred, then the fourteen year old going on forty...you get the picture.
When I was eighteen and had struck out on my own (meaning I was a phone hostess at a Times Square Restaurant - woo!) girls who were twenty-two and twenty-three thought I was twenty-seven or much older. Not that I looked it, I generally look like I'm twelve, but I act it, especially at work.
So I am curious as to how anyone in my office found out that I am young. Perhaps it's my boundless energy and willingness to scrabble up the side of a wall in order to hang banners. Perhaps it's my limitless joy in cookies. Perhaps it's because I spend quite a few of my nights drinking heavily and then am up bright and early with no real remorse or hangover. Perhaps it's because I haven't been able to break myself of calling people "Sir" "Maam" and "Mr./Ms. So-and-so".
Perhaps it's because I dressed up as a kitty cat for Halloween and ended all my sentences with "meow" for an entire day.
Alright that was a little immature, but my bosses adored it. So much so they have taken to calling me "Kitty" rather than "Katy" - yeah I'm all about that. They also took to petting me on the head. Okay, so I was wearing cat ears and cats do in fact love to be scratched behind the ears, and come to think of it I love to be scratched behind the ears - however, the weird thing is...they continue to do it.
Whether I'm sitting on the floor trying to file thousands of legal contract or at my desk typing up a new report, or on sitting on my desk haggling for a cheaper airfare...for some reason I am irresistible to pet. Even my fellow admins now walk by and pat me on the head, give me a good scratch on the neck...I feel like I should be shaking my leg in uncontainable joy. Pity I don't wear my cat tail to work everyday.
In addition to my random petting the pet names have returned with avengence. Along with "Kitty" and "Katy-Kitty" my favorite "kiddo" has returned. Also "sweetie" "honey" "dear-heart" "darling" "cutie" and "girl" (not it the "girlfriend" way but in the "what a good girl" way). I suppose I should be outraged by it all...but I kinda like the familiarity and the pet names - and I think some of the people who call me that have actually forgotten my real name and I don't want to embarrass them.
Maybe my favorite scene that comes with being labelled the "young" one in the team or the "kid" is when someone swears. The first time my boss slipped up and said - of all things - "bullshit" in my presence he looked as though a truck was about to hit him.
"I didn't say that, you didn't hear me say that. I'm sorry I said that!"
I smiled and prepared to say my standard come back to all political correctness issues "I'm married to a sailor."
That usually puts everyone at ease. If I can deal with my husband, I can deal with anyone.
It didn't really help with my boss though. Gentleman that he is, he is very careful to not swear in my presence, nor allow me to hear other people swear. I used to think this was because I am a woman, until we were on a conference call with another female who could have made my husband blush. The more she talked and the hotter the words came, the more my boss started to squirm. He cast sidelong glances my direction, he tried to turn the phone down, I think I saw steam coming from under his collar. Finally he said:
"Listen, you just had something in your mouth I wouldn't put in my hand. Cool it...Katy is hear with me."
"Oooh! Oh! I am sooooo sorry Katy. I didn't know, please ignore everything I said!"
I couldn't laugh, I wondered why, of all people, I had been labelled the prude. Me, the one who drinks on Sunday, and Saturday, and heck Monday through Friday. The one who blasts Marilyn Manson on the way to work. Why is everyone so afraid of me. Heck, I wear fishnets to work! I should be worried about walking on eggshells with other people.
It's not till this new petting phase kicked in that I really got it. I'm young enough to be the daughter of most people here. In fact most people here have a daughter my age. Like real good girls they are already graduating from college and planning their weddings. I'm sure they grew up just as sheltered as the people in this office try to keep me. Unfortunately, it's a little too late for me. No amount of rose-colored words will change the fact that I'm still not finished with school, eloped at the age of twenty and probably will never be termed a "real classy lady" a "lady" maybe - but never classy.
I just wished that since I have been embracing my new-found grown-up life other people would have let me grow-up by now.
When I was eighteen and had struck out on my own (meaning I was a phone hostess at a Times Square Restaurant - woo!) girls who were twenty-two and twenty-three thought I was twenty-seven or much older. Not that I looked it, I generally look like I'm twelve, but I act it, especially at work.
So I am curious as to how anyone in my office found out that I am young. Perhaps it's my boundless energy and willingness to scrabble up the side of a wall in order to hang banners. Perhaps it's my limitless joy in cookies. Perhaps it's because I spend quite a few of my nights drinking heavily and then am up bright and early with no real remorse or hangover. Perhaps it's because I haven't been able to break myself of calling people "Sir" "Maam" and "Mr./Ms. So-and-so".
Perhaps it's because I dressed up as a kitty cat for Halloween and ended all my sentences with "meow" for an entire day.
Alright that was a little immature, but my bosses adored it. So much so they have taken to calling me "Kitty" rather than "Katy" - yeah I'm all about that. They also took to petting me on the head. Okay, so I was wearing cat ears and cats do in fact love to be scratched behind the ears, and come to think of it I love to be scratched behind the ears - however, the weird thing is...they continue to do it.
Whether I'm sitting on the floor trying to file thousands of legal contract or at my desk typing up a new report, or on sitting on my desk haggling for a cheaper airfare...for some reason I am irresistible to pet. Even my fellow admins now walk by and pat me on the head, give me a good scratch on the neck...I feel like I should be shaking my leg in uncontainable joy. Pity I don't wear my cat tail to work everyday.
In addition to my random petting the pet names have returned with avengence. Along with "Kitty" and "Katy-Kitty" my favorite "kiddo" has returned. Also "sweetie" "honey" "dear-heart" "darling" "cutie" and "girl" (not it the "girlfriend" way but in the "what a good girl" way). I suppose I should be outraged by it all...but I kinda like the familiarity and the pet names - and I think some of the people who call me that have actually forgotten my real name and I don't want to embarrass them.
Maybe my favorite scene that comes with being labelled the "young" one in the team or the "kid" is when someone swears. The first time my boss slipped up and said - of all things - "bullshit" in my presence he looked as though a truck was about to hit him.
"I didn't say that, you didn't hear me say that. I'm sorry I said that!"
I smiled and prepared to say my standard come back to all political correctness issues "I'm married to a sailor."
That usually puts everyone at ease. If I can deal with my husband, I can deal with anyone.
It didn't really help with my boss though. Gentleman that he is, he is very careful to not swear in my presence, nor allow me to hear other people swear. I used to think this was because I am a woman, until we were on a conference call with another female who could have made my husband blush. The more she talked and the hotter the words came, the more my boss started to squirm. He cast sidelong glances my direction, he tried to turn the phone down, I think I saw steam coming from under his collar. Finally he said:
"Listen, you just had something in your mouth I wouldn't put in my hand. Cool it...Katy is hear with me."
"Oooh! Oh! I am sooooo sorry Katy. I didn't know, please ignore everything I said!"
I couldn't laugh, I wondered why, of all people, I had been labelled the prude. Me, the one who drinks on Sunday, and Saturday, and heck Monday through Friday. The one who blasts Marilyn Manson on the way to work. Why is everyone so afraid of me. Heck, I wear fishnets to work! I should be worried about walking on eggshells with other people.
It's not till this new petting phase kicked in that I really got it. I'm young enough to be the daughter of most people here. In fact most people here have a daughter my age. Like real good girls they are already graduating from college and planning their weddings. I'm sure they grew up just as sheltered as the people in this office try to keep me. Unfortunately, it's a little too late for me. No amount of rose-colored words will change the fact that I'm still not finished with school, eloped at the age of twenty and probably will never be termed a "real classy lady" a "lady" maybe - but never classy.
I just wished that since I have been embracing my new-found grown-up life other people would have let me grow-up by now.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
I got bit by a vampire
He came through my window, during a storm. First I heard the screen being clawed to shreds, then I heard him breathing heavily on the glass. He was ugly, hideous. All his teeth were pointed and they bit at the glass. Rough, decaying enamel against smooth, cool, wet glass. Eeeeeeee. Eeeeeeeeeee. I could see the fissure in the glass grow longer and longer. Eeeeeeeee-eeeecccchhhhhhhh! The glass shattered into the room letting in cold October rain and wind, the smell of wet leaves, green grass....and decay. Garbage, stinking rotten flesh, disease and filth. He smelled of it all, and looked worse.
He advanced slowly, seeming to pull the blankets I had wrapped tight around me away with just a look. My cat yeowled and ran away. So much for a guard cat. I turned and looked over my shoulder at my husband, but he simply rolled over and began snoring again. Still the creature advanced. Only a few moments before I had been awake, alert, startled into motion by the storm, now I felt drowsy. My eyes kept closing, my lashes seeming to pull them down. I knew I had to keep them open, stay awake, stay alert. Still he advanced. With every step he took and felt my body sinking further onto the bed. A dark, heavy cloud descended on me. It was unpleasant. It smelled of eggs too long left out and road kill. The creatures robe surrounded me, wet and heavy with rain. It crawled against my skin, soaking me to the core. I shivered and gagged. I had to gasp for breath and I drew in poisoned air. Air so foul and toxic my lungs burned. My body shook, my limbs went numb, the creatures weight bared down on my hard, his disgusting mouth came close to my face and as I turned my head away he pressed his long, pointed teeth to my neck, drawing in breath before he whispered in my ear...
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
I reached out from under the creature and with the last bit of strength I had left, the last bit he had not sucked out of me I hit him over the head. Over and over, I slammed my fist into his neck, till the incessant beeping stopped and suddenly the creature disappeared leaving only an eerie red glow in the room and a heavy weight on my soul.
This alarm clock is going to kill me someday.
He advanced slowly, seeming to pull the blankets I had wrapped tight around me away with just a look. My cat yeowled and ran away. So much for a guard cat. I turned and looked over my shoulder at my husband, but he simply rolled over and began snoring again. Still the creature advanced. Only a few moments before I had been awake, alert, startled into motion by the storm, now I felt drowsy. My eyes kept closing, my lashes seeming to pull them down. I knew I had to keep them open, stay awake, stay alert. Still he advanced. With every step he took and felt my body sinking further onto the bed. A dark, heavy cloud descended on me. It was unpleasant. It smelled of eggs too long left out and road kill. The creatures robe surrounded me, wet and heavy with rain. It crawled against my skin, soaking me to the core. I shivered and gagged. I had to gasp for breath and I drew in poisoned air. Air so foul and toxic my lungs burned. My body shook, my limbs went numb, the creatures weight bared down on my hard, his disgusting mouth came close to my face and as I turned my head away he pressed his long, pointed teeth to my neck, drawing in breath before he whispered in my ear...
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
I reached out from under the creature and with the last bit of strength I had left, the last bit he had not sucked out of me I hit him over the head. Over and over, I slammed my fist into his neck, till the incessant beeping stopped and suddenly the creature disappeared leaving only an eerie red glow in the room and a heavy weight on my soul.
This alarm clock is going to kill me someday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
