a divine rack
7.02.2005
6.19.2005
Info on the pictures below
I posted the 6 pictures below for AK, as a lesson in white balance. I was shooting pics of mi hermana Luchy putting on her makeup, and adjusting the camera settings to see which reading of the light I liked best. I never take notes on these things so I'm not sure which settings I used for which pics. I think I like #3 the best, though it's a tiny bit dark.
White balance is basically an adjustment for the spectrum of light. So, for example, tungsten lights (from a lightbulb let's say) are in a yellow spectrum. The camera reads the light as yellow, especially in longer exposures, so you adjust the camera to balance the light back toward white in order to avoid the picture looking too yellow. Another example is fluorescent lights, which are read by the camera during longer exposures to be blue. By adjusting the white balance, you pull the camera's reading away from blue and back toward white.
Anyway, that's my lesson for the day. :)
White balance is basically an adjustment for the spectrum of light. So, for example, tungsten lights (from a lightbulb let's say) are in a yellow spectrum. The camera reads the light as yellow, especially in longer exposures, so you adjust the camera to balance the light back toward white in order to avoid the picture looking too yellow. Another example is fluorescent lights, which are read by the camera during longer exposures to be blue. By adjusting the white balance, you pull the camera's reading away from blue and back toward white.
Anyway, that's my lesson for the day. :)
6.14.2005
6.13.2005
Princess Birthday
It's great to know that even at 27, you can still feel like a princess on your birthday. Thanks to everyone who made it special. Especially HM. Muchas gracias, darlin'.
6.09.2005
My last autobiographical posting
I need to be a little more private. I need to pursue stability. I will not be publishing any more musings about my life, my path, etc. on this blog anymore. I'm too neurotic and changeable to indict myself publicly. I might put up some photos from time to time, though.
Suffice to say, in response to my previous posting, I'm not planning on making any changes in my life. I need to just commit to it and stop being a flake. Tomorrow is my 27th birthday, and I give myself the gift of staying put. In my job, in Chicago, etc.
And that's all anyone needs to know. It's been fun.
Suffice to say, in response to my previous posting, I'm not planning on making any changes in my life. I need to just commit to it and stop being a flake. Tomorrow is my 27th birthday, and I give myself the gift of staying put. In my job, in Chicago, etc.
And that's all anyone needs to know. It's been fun.
5.30.2005
Greetings from Venezuela!
I have no idea how this website knows I'm in Latin America, but all of a sudden, Blogger is totally in Spanish. It's a little strange.
I write tonight from "Nemo's Chat," el local de mi cunhado Cesar, in Valencia, Venezuela. The local is a little room with dirty blue walls up a steep flight of stairs, full with 8 computers and a bevy of teenage boys playing games and chatting online for 1000 bolivars. I don't know if this is hourly, but I do know that 1000 bolivars is about 50 cents, USD.
I am staying here outside Valencia in Trigal Norte with my sister, Luisana. Cesar is Luisana's boyfriend, ergo he is my "cunhado" or brother-in-law. Of course, Luisana is not really my sister, not by blood anyway. Many years ago, my dear darling friend Amity lived here in Valencia, with Luisana and her family, as an exchange student. When Amity returned to visit last summer, she brought me along.
For all of the challenges and all of the strangeness, I loved it here from the first moments. And I still do. In fact, I was so happy here, and relatively unhappy in Chicago, that I thought about picking up and leaving yet again, for a sojourn in South America. Amity plans to return here in the fall to teach at a local bilingual school, and I have a home whenever I want it on Calle Acuario with Luisana and her family.
When I started this blog in January, I was pretty well convinced that come summertime, I'd be on my way down here to live. I think I can safely say that this will not come to pass, though not because I don't love the people, and love my Venezuelan family. I have decided to try to put down some roots. Ack.
I needed a vacation so that I could get some perspective on my life. In less than 2 weeks, I will be 27. This has always been a bit of a witching age for me. For some reason, those who have lived fast and died young, as the saying goes, seemed to expire at this age. I'm also definitely on the downward side of my mid-twenties, now. Pretty soon, it's going to be difficult to avoid being in my late 20's. I've been coming around to the idea that adulthood means something different than that which I have been doing, but I think I used to see it as a prison, not as a liberation.
Here's the thing. Getting away from it all, and coming to the place to which I had intended to flee, has been a way of coming full circle. I am staying in Chicago, though I hope to visit Valencia again at some point while Amity is here. If she's here. Mi amiga es una igualita de yo, y todo pueden cambiar.
The other thing that's working nicely in my life, though I know it's all rather too new to bank on too heavily, is Bachelor #3, who I've been seeing only less than a month now. But so far so good. I really like him, I like the dynamic between us, and I think it's worth working on and seeing where it goes.
Overall, I find that from time to time, I need to get away from my life in order to get some perspective on it. In the day to day, I'm too close to it to see the entire picture. And speaking of pictures, I took some gorgeous photos here. I need to get home, edit, and get my act together, but I think I have enough material for shopping around to exhibitions. And I want to write. For my birthday, thanks to this trip, I am making some changes in my life, and improving upon all of the ways in which I know myself, and know what will make me happy, rather than running again.
Okay, time for pizza, or dinner of some sort. More later. Mi hermana linda espera por mi. Chau!
I write tonight from "Nemo's Chat," el local de mi cunhado Cesar, in Valencia, Venezuela. The local is a little room with dirty blue walls up a steep flight of stairs, full with 8 computers and a bevy of teenage boys playing games and chatting online for 1000 bolivars. I don't know if this is hourly, but I do know that 1000 bolivars is about 50 cents, USD.
I am staying here outside Valencia in Trigal Norte with my sister, Luisana. Cesar is Luisana's boyfriend, ergo he is my "cunhado" or brother-in-law. Of course, Luisana is not really my sister, not by blood anyway. Many years ago, my dear darling friend Amity lived here in Valencia, with Luisana and her family, as an exchange student. When Amity returned to visit last summer, she brought me along.
For all of the challenges and all of the strangeness, I loved it here from the first moments. And I still do. In fact, I was so happy here, and relatively unhappy in Chicago, that I thought about picking up and leaving yet again, for a sojourn in South America. Amity plans to return here in the fall to teach at a local bilingual school, and I have a home whenever I want it on Calle Acuario with Luisana and her family.
When I started this blog in January, I was pretty well convinced that come summertime, I'd be on my way down here to live. I think I can safely say that this will not come to pass, though not because I don't love the people, and love my Venezuelan family. I have decided to try to put down some roots. Ack.
I needed a vacation so that I could get some perspective on my life. In less than 2 weeks, I will be 27. This has always been a bit of a witching age for me. For some reason, those who have lived fast and died young, as the saying goes, seemed to expire at this age. I'm also definitely on the downward side of my mid-twenties, now. Pretty soon, it's going to be difficult to avoid being in my late 20's. I've been coming around to the idea that adulthood means something different than that which I have been doing, but I think I used to see it as a prison, not as a liberation.
Here's the thing. Getting away from it all, and coming to the place to which I had intended to flee, has been a way of coming full circle. I am staying in Chicago, though I hope to visit Valencia again at some point while Amity is here. If she's here. Mi amiga es una igualita de yo, y todo pueden cambiar.
The other thing that's working nicely in my life, though I know it's all rather too new to bank on too heavily, is Bachelor #3, who I've been seeing only less than a month now. But so far so good. I really like him, I like the dynamic between us, and I think it's worth working on and seeing where it goes.
Overall, I find that from time to time, I need to get away from my life in order to get some perspective on it. In the day to day, I'm too close to it to see the entire picture. And speaking of pictures, I took some gorgeous photos here. I need to get home, edit, and get my act together, but I think I have enough material for shopping around to exhibitions. And I want to write. For my birthday, thanks to this trip, I am making some changes in my life, and improving upon all of the ways in which I know myself, and know what will make me happy, rather than running again.
Okay, time for pizza, or dinner of some sort. More later. Mi hermana linda espera por mi. Chau!
5.21.2005
Baby Bird
I've got pix! And they WILL be posted.
About a month or six weeks ago, I bought a lovely hanging plant with these riotous fuschia bell-like flowers. I hung it on a nail out on the balcony, and when I lay in my hammock I could enjoy it as a sign of spring.
Well, on a dreary Friday morning about three weeks ago, I saw an enormous bird fly out of my plant. Hmm. Ok. I didn't think much of it until that evening, when JS from work came over and I told her the story. As emphasis, I walked out onto the porch to look in, and there was the bird. JS insisted it was a pigeon. I protested, guessing it was a mourning dove, though I didn't think I had ever seeen one before. Turns out it is a mourning dove. But mourning doves are in the pigeon family, so we were both right.
Evidently I spooked the bird, because she flew away. JS suggested the bird might be nesting. Absurd! Why would a bird nest in my plant? So I took the plant off the nail, and sure enough, a perfect pearlescent gray-white egg lay nestled inside, just off-center, in the little hollow its mama had made.
My first reaction was disbelief, then shock, then pride. Finally, as the days and weeks passed, I was like a nervous first-time parent. I scoured websites for information on mourning dove gestation, and read that it takes two weeks for eggs to hatch. So, I watched and waited, and witnessed such a vigil as I could not have imagined. That mama bird DID NOT MOVE. Not once in three weeks. Not when Mojo or I would hang out on the porch. Not when papa bird would stop by. Not when a spring storm literally rained torrents onto her head the other night, and she gasped for air under the coursing water.
The night of that rainstorm, I had a terrible dream. According to that first website, my baby bird was a week late. Was it dead? Would it never even hatch? The idea of that mother bird nearly drowning to protect a dead egg evidently really preyed on my subconscious. In my dream, the mama bird finally gave up and left. I took down the plant (which was, in my dream as it is in real life, pretty much dead. I can't very well dump Miracle-Gro into a birds' nest, can I?)
Anyway, when I examined the abandoned nest in my dream, there were three eggs. The largest was the one I had actually seen, but now it was half-melted, sticky, chalky, and very cold. Parts of the shell were so thin I could see the suffocated chick pressed against the membrane inside, eyes clenched. The other two eggs were in the same condition, but much smaller and deformed. They were never even viable.
The sight of these abberations in my dream disgusted me, but I couldn't help but look and look and look. More than anything, I felt this inchoate sadness, like it was me who had had lost my own offspring. When I woke up, I could hear the endless chorus of birds roosting in the trees outside my bedroom window, and felt that quiet, distance loss.
So later that morning, I got online at work and did a little more research. Come to find out, according to a different source, hatching can take 4 or even 5 weeks after a mourning dove lays the egg. Mourning doves live in all 48 states, and I can only assume that differences will evolve even within the species. At any rate, the news was encouraging.
And then this morning, papa bird returned. I found him sitting stoically on the railing of the balcony, tormenting Mojo with his very presence. My sources say that papa makes himself scarce during the chick's development, but returns to assist mama in feeding the very demanding newborn. So, trying not to upset anyone, I climbed onto some crates and peeked in. Sure enough, a very gray, very wet, very bewildered little critter cuddled against his mother and peered back at me. He even has her beady little black eyes.
I couldn't be more proud than if it were my little chick. Welcome to the world, baby bird! Christ, does anyone else hear that alarm going off? Ignore it. Seriously.
About a month or six weeks ago, I bought a lovely hanging plant with these riotous fuschia bell-like flowers. I hung it on a nail out on the balcony, and when I lay in my hammock I could enjoy it as a sign of spring.
Well, on a dreary Friday morning about three weeks ago, I saw an enormous bird fly out of my plant. Hmm. Ok. I didn't think much of it until that evening, when JS from work came over and I told her the story. As emphasis, I walked out onto the porch to look in, and there was the bird. JS insisted it was a pigeon. I protested, guessing it was a mourning dove, though I didn't think I had ever seeen one before. Turns out it is a mourning dove. But mourning doves are in the pigeon family, so we were both right.
Evidently I spooked the bird, because she flew away. JS suggested the bird might be nesting. Absurd! Why would a bird nest in my plant? So I took the plant off the nail, and sure enough, a perfect pearlescent gray-white egg lay nestled inside, just off-center, in the little hollow its mama had made.
My first reaction was disbelief, then shock, then pride. Finally, as the days and weeks passed, I was like a nervous first-time parent. I scoured websites for information on mourning dove gestation, and read that it takes two weeks for eggs to hatch. So, I watched and waited, and witnessed such a vigil as I could not have imagined. That mama bird DID NOT MOVE. Not once in three weeks. Not when Mojo or I would hang out on the porch. Not when papa bird would stop by. Not when a spring storm literally rained torrents onto her head the other night, and she gasped for air under the coursing water.
The night of that rainstorm, I had a terrible dream. According to that first website, my baby bird was a week late. Was it dead? Would it never even hatch? The idea of that mother bird nearly drowning to protect a dead egg evidently really preyed on my subconscious. In my dream, the mama bird finally gave up and left. I took down the plant (which was, in my dream as it is in real life, pretty much dead. I can't very well dump Miracle-Gro into a birds' nest, can I?)
Anyway, when I examined the abandoned nest in my dream, there were three eggs. The largest was the one I had actually seen, but now it was half-melted, sticky, chalky, and very cold. Parts of the shell were so thin I could see the suffocated chick pressed against the membrane inside, eyes clenched. The other two eggs were in the same condition, but much smaller and deformed. They were never even viable.
The sight of these abberations in my dream disgusted me, but I couldn't help but look and look and look. More than anything, I felt this inchoate sadness, like it was me who had had lost my own offspring. When I woke up, I could hear the endless chorus of birds roosting in the trees outside my bedroom window, and felt that quiet, distance loss.
So later that morning, I got online at work and did a little more research. Come to find out, according to a different source, hatching can take 4 or even 5 weeks after a mourning dove lays the egg. Mourning doves live in all 48 states, and I can only assume that differences will evolve even within the species. At any rate, the news was encouraging.
And then this morning, papa bird returned. I found him sitting stoically on the railing of the balcony, tormenting Mojo with his very presence. My sources say that papa makes himself scarce during the chick's development, but returns to assist mama in feeding the very demanding newborn. So, trying not to upset anyone, I climbed onto some crates and peeked in. Sure enough, a very gray, very wet, very bewildered little critter cuddled against his mother and peered back at me. He even has her beady little black eyes.
I couldn't be more proud than if it were my little chick. Welcome to the world, baby bird! Christ, does anyone else hear that alarm going off? Ignore it. Seriously.
No, really. I'm back. For now at least.
A couple of things. Like the seasons I so obsessively dwelt upon during winter, things change. I'm not teaching anymore, and the hiatus has been like a rebirth so far. I do not wish to do that to myself again. However, I miss the extra money, and find myself rather skint almost immediately after payday.
Something else. I'm not smoking anymore. At least for now. I know better than to ever say anything too definitive. It's part of the self-awareness that comes with adulthood. So I'm not smoking, and smoking was a habit that dovetailed nicely for me with this here blogging habit. But here I am, so I guess I CAN blog without my other vices in tow.
Also. The online dating thing. It's been a slice. After about 5 dates each with a couple of very-nice-but-not-quite-right guys who, in fairness, looked like GREAT catches in profiles, Bachelor #3 has turned out to be completely delightful. Good stuff. And very distracting. In the absolute best possible way, though. Mmmm.
And. I'm sick of my job, of course, but the fates have still not seen fit to send something else my way yet. However, according to my horoscope, big changes are afoot career-wise in July. Here's hoping.
So. I'm off to Venezuela for a week on Tuesday, on an unspeakably early flight. But God Bless frequent flyer programs. Thanks to Citibank and American Airlines, I will fly round trip from O'Hare to Caracas for 30,000 miles and $72. The plan is a weekend in Morrocoy at the beach house in Chichiriviche with la familia; and come hell or high water I'm getting myself to Las Trincheras for a totally self-indulgent day of spa heaven. Overall, I need some Latin time, and I look forward to improving my Spanish, writing, photographing, etc. And chances are I'll have some internet access, so perhaps there will be a post or two this week.
Something else. I'm not smoking anymore. At least for now. I know better than to ever say anything too definitive. It's part of the self-awareness that comes with adulthood. So I'm not smoking, and smoking was a habit that dovetailed nicely for me with this here blogging habit. But here I am, so I guess I CAN blog without my other vices in tow.
Also. The online dating thing. It's been a slice. After about 5 dates each with a couple of very-nice-but-not-quite-right guys who, in fairness, looked like GREAT catches in profiles, Bachelor #3 has turned out to be completely delightful. Good stuff. And very distracting. In the absolute best possible way, though. Mmmm.
And. I'm sick of my job, of course, but the fates have still not seen fit to send something else my way yet. However, according to my horoscope, big changes are afoot career-wise in July. Here's hoping.
So. I'm off to Venezuela for a week on Tuesday, on an unspeakably early flight. But God Bless frequent flyer programs. Thanks to Citibank and American Airlines, I will fly round trip from O'Hare to Caracas for 30,000 miles and $72. The plan is a weekend in Morrocoy at the beach house in Chichiriviche with la familia; and come hell or high water I'm getting myself to Las Trincheras for a totally self-indulgent day of spa heaven. Overall, I need some Latin time, and I look forward to improving my Spanish, writing, photographing, etc. And chances are I'll have some internet access, so perhaps there will be a post or two this week.
4.17.2005
Back from Hiatus
Though not pre-meditated, I've found myself not having blogged in 2 weeks. Spring has arrived, completely arrived, here in Chicago, so I now find myself lounging in the hammock during rare free moments. I've also taken up tanning, as in using the tanning beds at the clubhouse at my apartment complex. After playing it very safe without any appreciable results, I managed to finally overdo it today. My ass is totally pink, as is my back in a few long streaky patches. I'm looking forward to watching the burn evolve.
The other distraction is the imminent end of my teaching responsibilities at RMC. Two more weeks! So, now that it's winding down, there's plenty to do. Though I've enjoyed it, and as always I have learned so much from my students, I am officially ready to have a little more time. I'll be off next term, and it's yet to be determined if they need me/I can handle doing it again come July. The extra money has been great, as has the additional experience for the resume. But the time will be priceless.
Oh, and there's that little thing I mentioned last time, the online dating thing. It's going well. I recommend it highly. And I'm not saying any more about it ;)
So yeah, I'll be trying to make more time for this. But only between dates, and if I can get my variegated pink ass out of the hammock.
The other distraction is the imminent end of my teaching responsibilities at RMC. Two more weeks! So, now that it's winding down, there's plenty to do. Though I've enjoyed it, and as always I have learned so much from my students, I am officially ready to have a little more time. I'll be off next term, and it's yet to be determined if they need me/I can handle doing it again come July. The extra money has been great, as has the additional experience for the resume. But the time will be priceless.
Oh, and there's that little thing I mentioned last time, the online dating thing. It's going well. I recommend it highly. And I'm not saying any more about it ;)
So yeah, I'll be trying to make more time for this. But only between dates, and if I can get my variegated pink ass out of the hammock.
4.02.2005
Hat in Ring
I cannot believe I am admitting this, because there is still an ever-so slight taint to the whole business in my mind. But, what the hell.
Tonight, I signed up for an online dating service.
This is slightly mortifying. I have never had a problem finding dates, and I'm not having a particular problem now. Being single is fine!
But I don't know many people in Chicago, other than co-workers and students --- both of which are groups best left alone in terms of dating. It's hard to meet people. The deciding factor was lunch today with DH and his boyfriend, who met online; in addition to all the other friends, gay and straight, who have used such services and been very pleased with the results.
The thing is, it IS better than a bar. You can pre-screen the candidates and try to target something that won't just be another waste of time. I guess the best reason of all for trying this, testimonials aside, is that I kind of like the idea of at least TARGETING my efforts in dating, rather than just aiming wildly on some dance floor and hoping I hit someone decent. It's not like I have all the free time in the world, and I don't want waste it.
So, I'll keep you posted. Right now I'm waiting for my profile to clear the censors (lest I tried to post any objectionable, lewd, or otherwise scary content); and once it does, there are few guys I'd like to wink at.
Heaven help me.
Tonight, I signed up for an online dating service.
This is slightly mortifying. I have never had a problem finding dates, and I'm not having a particular problem now. Being single is fine!
But I don't know many people in Chicago, other than co-workers and students --- both of which are groups best left alone in terms of dating. It's hard to meet people. The deciding factor was lunch today with DH and his boyfriend, who met online; in addition to all the other friends, gay and straight, who have used such services and been very pleased with the results.
The thing is, it IS better than a bar. You can pre-screen the candidates and try to target something that won't just be another waste of time. I guess the best reason of all for trying this, testimonials aside, is that I kind of like the idea of at least TARGETING my efforts in dating, rather than just aiming wildly on some dance floor and hoping I hit someone decent. It's not like I have all the free time in the world, and I don't want waste it.
So, I'll keep you posted. Right now I'm waiting for my profile to clear the censors (lest I tried to post any objectionable, lewd, or otherwise scary content); and once it does, there are few guys I'd like to wink at.
Heaven help me.
3.31.2005
In a mood like this . . .
. . . there are only two things to do. Smoke, and listen to Elvis Costello.
I adore this man.
Specifically, tonight it's ONLY Blood and Chocolate, an album that took me a year and a half to get into. This happens with Costello. There's a dark, boozy, anxious, sedate, dark country road in my past, in Iowa City, when only All This Useless Beauty would do. Literally. I was physically incapable of listening to ANYTHING else.
Tonight, I have woken up from the most beautiful dream.
I'm learning that the biggest things can happen in the tiniest, most intimate and impossible spaces. These spaces are dreams when we are asleep, but when they spill over into real life . . . you become a sleepwalker. You move through the day, longing for your little spaces, perfect little pockets of play in a tapestry of work.
Did I love the dream itself? Or was it just that I loved the idea that the dream might not actually fade in daylight, or in the scope of what is possible? The former is more likely, and the latter is what will help me stop chiding myself that I am smart enough to have known better. Maybe it's about the difference between faith and stupidity. I like to think that I am learning to be faithful, and that I am not just perennially stupid.
The worst part is that I find myself finding hope. Well, looking for it. I'm too smart to delude myself into thinking I've FOUND hope, but I am faithful enough to look for it. Can I just go back to sleep now, and return to my dream? Probably not. After all, I've been trying to wake up.
But I know myself, and I'll dream again tonight. Maybe it's a new dream, and maybe it's the residue of the old one, but something will be there. And I'll be waiting for it.
I adore this man.
Specifically, tonight it's ONLY Blood and Chocolate, an album that took me a year and a half to get into. This happens with Costello. There's a dark, boozy, anxious, sedate, dark country road in my past, in Iowa City, when only All This Useless Beauty would do. Literally. I was physically incapable of listening to ANYTHING else.
Tonight, I have woken up from the most beautiful dream.
I'm learning that the biggest things can happen in the tiniest, most intimate and impossible spaces. These spaces are dreams when we are asleep, but when they spill over into real life . . . you become a sleepwalker. You move through the day, longing for your little spaces, perfect little pockets of play in a tapestry of work.
Did I love the dream itself? Or was it just that I loved the idea that the dream might not actually fade in daylight, or in the scope of what is possible? The former is more likely, and the latter is what will help me stop chiding myself that I am smart enough to have known better. Maybe it's about the difference between faith and stupidity. I like to think that I am learning to be faithful, and that I am not just perennially stupid.
The worst part is that I find myself finding hope. Well, looking for it. I'm too smart to delude myself into thinking I've FOUND hope, but I am faithful enough to look for it. Can I just go back to sleep now, and return to my dream? Probably not. After all, I've been trying to wake up.
But I know myself, and I'll dream again tonight. Maybe it's a new dream, and maybe it's the residue of the old one, but something will be there. And I'll be waiting for it.
3.29.2005
$44.07/month savings:
Whilst in Iowa City this weekend, I figured out how to turn on the wireless function on this here company laptop. One advantage to corporate slavery: the $2000 in laptop equipment I got at the first of the year. I freakin' LOVE this thing and I'm chagrined to think someday we will be parted.
So, I switched on the laptop at home and the wireless connection worked. I double-checked the strength of it by unplugging the modem in my living room, just in case it was somehow pulling the signal from there.
It's not. I have wireless.
Which means, to hell with ComCast! To HELL! I don't watch the cable enough, and the internet is now available in the tub or on the porch or in bed, all for FREE!
Granted, I just gotten bitten by the zombie of NetFlix, so now, drooling and braindead, I'll be dropping 20 bucks a month on that. But, it's a good chance to catch up on some films and even get things for school, without having to go out. Again, in this case, FREE was better when I would rely on the Public Library. But after getting confused and not returning two discs, the $10 fine alerted me to the merits of no late fees, and movie returns I can make at the post office box while waiting for the elevator in the morning.
Anyway, off to watch Donnie Darko. Amores Perros last night was incredible, by the way. You should queue it . . . .
So, I switched on the laptop at home and the wireless connection worked. I double-checked the strength of it by unplugging the modem in my living room, just in case it was somehow pulling the signal from there.
It's not. I have wireless.
Which means, to hell with ComCast! To HELL! I don't watch the cable enough, and the internet is now available in the tub or on the porch or in bed, all for FREE!
Granted, I just gotten bitten by the zombie of NetFlix, so now, drooling and braindead, I'll be dropping 20 bucks a month on that. But, it's a good chance to catch up on some films and even get things for school, without having to go out. Again, in this case, FREE was better when I would rely on the Public Library. But after getting confused and not returning two discs, the $10 fine alerted me to the merits of no late fees, and movie returns I can make at the post office box while waiting for the elevator in the morning.
Anyway, off to watch Donnie Darko. Amores Perros last night was incredible, by the way. You should queue it . . . .
3.26.2005
In Town Again
KK is doing KR's hair in the bathroom, and we're debating whether or not KR has "man hair," "lesbian hair," or "anorexic hair."
This town has wrapped itself around me again, in the most pleasant way.
I miss having friends who are NOT tied to my job. First thing I do when I return to the city is STOP being a nun and get myself a life.
We're getting ready for a night of dancing at the only gay bar in town, with an entourage of friends and acquaintances. I haven't been here in over a year, but I'll know people there. That never happens in Chicago, with one very odd exception. And that exception is this girl from Iowa City I keep running into, to the point that it's becoming scary.
I know that I can wander into the Tobacco Bowl and wait. Before long, someone will come in.
I also bought a pair of Versace pumps at Revival, a fantastic consignment shop on Linn St. With the store credit for items I brought in, I paid less than NINE dollars for them. Yay! They're slightly 80's fabulous, white open-toe 3" slingbacks with rainbow neon spraypainted stripes, but they tone right down with a pair of jeans.
I won't wear them out dancing tonight.
This town has wrapped itself around me again, in the most pleasant way.
I miss having friends who are NOT tied to my job. First thing I do when I return to the city is STOP being a nun and get myself a life.
We're getting ready for a night of dancing at the only gay bar in town, with an entourage of friends and acquaintances. I haven't been here in over a year, but I'll know people there. That never happens in Chicago, with one very odd exception. And that exception is this girl from Iowa City I keep running into, to the point that it's becoming scary.
I know that I can wander into the Tobacco Bowl and wait. Before long, someone will come in.
I also bought a pair of Versace pumps at Revival, a fantastic consignment shop on Linn St. With the store credit for items I brought in, I paid less than NINE dollars for them. Yay! They're slightly 80's fabulous, white open-toe 3" slingbacks with rainbow neon spraypainted stripes, but they tone right down with a pair of jeans.
I won't wear them out dancing tonight.
My apologies to the good "Professor"
In the posting "Auto da Fe" a few days ago, I alluded to "the second season" of "Father Ted," an Irish sitcom I watched again recently. One "Professor J. Grubelsnatch" of the UK commented on the posting and chastised me for not calling it "the second series" as is the British custom.
My apologies. While I do recognize that the terminology is different on either side of the Atlantic, I did not wish to confuse my largely (term used relatively) American audience. To the both of them, "series" means the entire length of a program, and not the individual years which are instead called "seasons."
But if I am correct as to the individual's true identity, Professor Grubelsnatch is well-versed in teasing me about my Yankee-isms, I must confess I appreciate the close reading.
My apologies. While I do recognize that the terminology is different on either side of the Atlantic, I did not wish to confuse my largely (term used relatively) American audience. To the both of them, "series" means the entire length of a program, and not the individual years which are instead called "seasons."
But if I am correct as to the individual's true identity, Professor Grubelsnatch is well-versed in teasing me about my Yankee-isms, I must confess I appreciate the close reading.
3.24.2005
The Dry Run
So, tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Iowa City. The friends I want to see are busy, working and such, so I will have time to catch up on my grading and correspondence, both professional and personal.
And I realize that this is the first test of my proposed change of livlihood to adjunct online faculty/world traveler extraordinaire.
I already got the word from KK about the weekend's itinerary, and about where I can get wireless internet access on the Ped Mall. I have mid-term grades due by Monday at noon, so this should work out well.
It's LIKE a vacation, but it's really a time trial for the telecommuter. Let's see if I qualify.
But this trip is also about moving forward, letting go. I'm going back to go forward. I didn't always get what I wanted there, but from Iowa City I will take what I need.
And I realize that this is the first test of my proposed change of livlihood to adjunct online faculty/world traveler extraordinaire.
I already got the word from KK about the weekend's itinerary, and about where I can get wireless internet access on the Ped Mall. I have mid-term grades due by Monday at noon, so this should work out well.
It's LIKE a vacation, but it's really a time trial for the telecommuter. Let's see if I qualify.
But this trip is also about moving forward, letting go. I'm going back to go forward. I didn't always get what I wanted there, but from Iowa City I will take what I need.
3.21.2005
Auto Da Fe
Without my noticing, Spring arrived officially yesterday morning. I've been grousing about the seasons long enough now, and winter finally ended with little fanfare.
Of course, it's not the seasons that really affect me. All of the things that were bothering me yesterday haven't gone away today just because of a little cosmic slide.
I've never been a very faithful person, but suddenly this year I have found myself in a position of believing in something, and being called upon to have faith in it. I continue to struggle to maintain my faith, even without much encouragement or justification from the object(s) of that faith for continuing to do so.
I'm beginning to understand being Catholic, though my faith and need for that faith is not strictly along traditional religious lines.
I understand now that Catholics are waiting for the return of Jesus, who will come again to judge the living and the dead. Until this weekend (thanks to my current crisis of faith and the second season of the Irish sitcom "Father Ted") I didn't understand that Catholics, like lovers, are the ones who wait. We martyr ourselves to the promise of things that will likely never come to pass. We spend so much time looking ahead for the pending miracle that we could miss the actual in the every day.
I realize now why "aqui y ahora" is so difficult for me to fully grasp. It's the opposite of what I have ever known, ever been taught, or ever socialized into. It makes me feel a little bit better on the one hand. However, I am also more Catholic, more nun-like, more ascetic than I think I ever have been, in all aspects of my life right now. I want something I cannot have yet, and I have to have faith that someday I will have it, and I have to try to not destroy it while I wait.
But waiting for the miracle is precisely why I think I left my Catholic roots as a teenager. It was all so rarefied and arcane, so out of touch with what was my here and now at that time. More than anything, I'm terrible at waiting, I hate waiting, and I constantly fear that the line between blind faith and glaring stupidity is ever-blurring.
However, I get it. This is a lesson that for 26 years now I've fought against having to learn. I have waited, have been waiting, and I continue to wait. What choice do I have? Faith compels me to wait. Though it seemed like winter would never end, it did end after all. The days are still cold and will be, but it's on the run now. And who knows, maybe my ship will come in and the wait will actually end favorably. . . and hopefully before Jesus decides to return for his encore.
Of course, it's not the seasons that really affect me. All of the things that were bothering me yesterday haven't gone away today just because of a little cosmic slide.
I've never been a very faithful person, but suddenly this year I have found myself in a position of believing in something, and being called upon to have faith in it. I continue to struggle to maintain my faith, even without much encouragement or justification from the object(s) of that faith for continuing to do so.
I'm beginning to understand being Catholic, though my faith and need for that faith is not strictly along traditional religious lines.
I understand now that Catholics are waiting for the return of Jesus, who will come again to judge the living and the dead. Until this weekend (thanks to my current crisis of faith and the second season of the Irish sitcom "Father Ted") I didn't understand that Catholics, like lovers, are the ones who wait. We martyr ourselves to the promise of things that will likely never come to pass. We spend so much time looking ahead for the pending miracle that we could miss the actual in the every day.
I realize now why "aqui y ahora" is so difficult for me to fully grasp. It's the opposite of what I have ever known, ever been taught, or ever socialized into. It makes me feel a little bit better on the one hand. However, I am also more Catholic, more nun-like, more ascetic than I think I ever have been, in all aspects of my life right now. I want something I cannot have yet, and I have to have faith that someday I will have it, and I have to try to not destroy it while I wait.
But waiting for the miracle is precisely why I think I left my Catholic roots as a teenager. It was all so rarefied and arcane, so out of touch with what was my here and now at that time. More than anything, I'm terrible at waiting, I hate waiting, and I constantly fear that the line between blind faith and glaring stupidity is ever-blurring.
However, I get it. This is a lesson that for 26 years now I've fought against having to learn. I have waited, have been waiting, and I continue to wait. What choice do I have? Faith compels me to wait. Though it seemed like winter would never end, it did end after all. The days are still cold and will be, but it's on the run now. And who knows, maybe my ship will come in and the wait will actually end favorably. . . and hopefully before Jesus decides to return for his encore.
3.19.2005
Spring Cleaning
Easter weekend, early this year, falls on March-something. Easter, probably the most widely celebrated of the Catholic "Moveable Feasts," hits me by surprise every year.
Already rather nun-like, I tend to avoid giving things up for Lent. I've given up sunshine long enough. Plus there's no time to prepare for giving things up. I tune out so hard in wintertime that Ash Wednesday only occurs to me when the odd coworker or student pops up with a smudgy forehead. By that point, my day usually planned so full that it spills into the next one and I don't observe the holiday. And Mardi Gras, that HUGE hedonists' ball the night before. Yeah, I was probably in bed by 10 pm.
Then suddenly it's Easter and things are changing.
I've been on a couple of purge-kicks already this year, but that was of things to give away. A trip to Iowa City next weekend means it's time for full-on Spring Cleaning. There is a consignment store I know well there. I'll pack up the Hyundai only with things I know they'll take, and I truck it out West.
It's like going to market. Crap that I have from Chicago will sell, and in a few months VR will mail me a check. It'll probably only cover the gas to and from the trip, but it's something. The real benefit is that I am less a carload of THINGS.
There are so many ways to diet, and so many parts of ourselves that need to lose weight.
Already rather nun-like, I tend to avoid giving things up for Lent. I've given up sunshine long enough. Plus there's no time to prepare for giving things up. I tune out so hard in wintertime that Ash Wednesday only occurs to me when the odd coworker or student pops up with a smudgy forehead. By that point, my day usually planned so full that it spills into the next one and I don't observe the holiday. And Mardi Gras, that HUGE hedonists' ball the night before. Yeah, I was probably in bed by 10 pm.
Then suddenly it's Easter and things are changing.
I've been on a couple of purge-kicks already this year, but that was of things to give away. A trip to Iowa City next weekend means it's time for full-on Spring Cleaning. There is a consignment store I know well there. I'll pack up the Hyundai only with things I know they'll take, and I truck it out West.
It's like going to market. Crap that I have from Chicago will sell, and in a few months VR will mail me a check. It'll probably only cover the gas to and from the trip, but it's something. The real benefit is that I am less a carload of THINGS.
There are so many ways to diet, and so many parts of ourselves that need to lose weight.
3.18.2005
Style
When do habits become addictions?
I read my horoscope a day ahead, every day, on two different sites. I am addicted to Manolo's blog, and I'm thoroughly enjoying Go Fug Yourself.
I miss smoking, because it organizes your time. The larger longer more complex tapestry of the long view is given order and reason in the short term, when you plan on doing something regularly. Habit, ritual, addiction.
Habits are private. Rituals are shared. Addictions are rituals that should remain private, but don't.
I'm smoking again because it orders the end of the day. The way that telenovelas have, or work, or habits or rituals or addictions. Because it lets me sleep; and because I don't want to, but I don't want to not to.
I read my horoscope a day ahead, every day, on two different sites. I am addicted to Manolo's blog, and I'm thoroughly enjoying Go Fug Yourself.
I miss smoking, because it organizes your time. The larger longer more complex tapestry of the long view is given order and reason in the short term, when you plan on doing something regularly. Habit, ritual, addiction.
Habits are private. Rituals are shared. Addictions are rituals that should remain private, but don't.
I'm smoking again because it orders the end of the day. The way that telenovelas have, or work, or habits or rituals or addictions. Because it lets me sleep; and because I don't want to, but I don't want to not to.
3.17.2005
Bodies, Rest and Motion.
I can't tell if I'm tired or if I'm bored.
I do nothing but work. I don't say this so as to play the martyr or to fish for accolades. It's just the truth. I've always been like this.
But tonight I just feel this . . . blah. I know that a few months from now I'll probably look back on this time alone as a lovely respite, when whatever will be will have become. And I'm really quite relaxed by all this working because I'm retreating from the day to day otherwise. All of my social connections right now exist via the internet and with people who live far away. Physically, I am only in contact with my co-workers and my students.
But this is not physical contact. There is an intellectual and emotional distance between me and all of those near my physical body. I have no physical, corporeal contact with anyone.
Except Mojo, but admitting that is just pathetic, really.
I don't miss the drama that's associated with living with people, or dating someone, or having girlfriends around. I'm a bit of an anchoress right now, shut in but working very hard in order to open my doors. But I miss physical bodies, intimate bodies. The bodies that steam the windows when taking a shower and leave wet footprints on the floor. The ones who exhale smoke. The ones that tangle up in mine when we sleep.
I do nothing but work. I don't say this so as to play the martyr or to fish for accolades. It's just the truth. I've always been like this.
But tonight I just feel this . . . blah. I know that a few months from now I'll probably look back on this time alone as a lovely respite, when whatever will be will have become. And I'm really quite relaxed by all this working because I'm retreating from the day to day otherwise. All of my social connections right now exist via the internet and with people who live far away. Physically, I am only in contact with my co-workers and my students.
But this is not physical contact. There is an intellectual and emotional distance between me and all of those near my physical body. I have no physical, corporeal contact with anyone.
Except Mojo, but admitting that is just pathetic, really.
I don't miss the drama that's associated with living with people, or dating someone, or having girlfriends around. I'm a bit of an anchoress right now, shut in but working very hard in order to open my doors. But I miss physical bodies, intimate bodies. The bodies that steam the windows when taking a shower and leave wet footprints on the floor. The ones who exhale smoke. The ones that tangle up in mine when we sleep.
3.16.2005
I'm Out Wandering Around
I always loved it that that phrase forms an acronym for "Iowa" where I lived for a little over three years.
I-O-W-A also can stand for "I Oughta Went Around" as my friend TF always used to say.
I left a drug problem and three of the hardest, loveliest, most lost years in Iowa City in December 2003 and I have not been back yet.
But I've decided that that's where I'm going next weekend when my students are on the shortest Spring Break ever. RMC is notable for being in session 50 out of 52 weeks a year. They're almost as bad as my day job, where there are only 6 paid holiday DAYS OFF all year, and none of them are between New Years' Day and Memorial Day.
I've wanted to go back to Iowa, but just couldn't. But now I'm so excited. There are some much-loved dear and cherished friends still there and I need to see them again. Plus, spring is coming to the Midwest. Stormy, intense, and powerful, Spring is what reminds Midwesterners they are still actually alive.
It's early yet. Spring only gets more and more intense until it settles into hot, hazy summer around the middle of June. But I'll go back to Iowa City, roam downtown, spend long lazy hours in conversation. The Lion will shed the winter and prepare for all the storms and changes to come.
I-O-W-A also can stand for "I Oughta Went Around" as my friend TF always used to say.
I left a drug problem and three of the hardest, loveliest, most lost years in Iowa City in December 2003 and I have not been back yet.
But I've decided that that's where I'm going next weekend when my students are on the shortest Spring Break ever. RMC is notable for being in session 50 out of 52 weeks a year. They're almost as bad as my day job, where there are only 6 paid holiday DAYS OFF all year, and none of them are between New Years' Day and Memorial Day.
I've wanted to go back to Iowa, but just couldn't. But now I'm so excited. There are some much-loved dear and cherished friends still there and I need to see them again. Plus, spring is coming to the Midwest. Stormy, intense, and powerful, Spring is what reminds Midwesterners they are still actually alive.
It's early yet. Spring only gets more and more intense until it settles into hot, hazy summer around the middle of June. But I'll go back to Iowa City, roam downtown, spend long lazy hours in conversation. The Lion will shed the winter and prepare for all the storms and changes to come.
3.13.2005
Wax On, Wax Off
Tonight, MP from the office led me to the home of Z, a petite Indian woman who provides hair removal services from a bedroom upstairs in her home. MP is the one who also introduced me (and the entire office) to threading, and now she has to keep a spool of white 100% cotton on her desk because we're all hooked. She's begun doing my eyebrows and upper lip on Thursdays, right in my office.
So this discussion of dipiliation turns into an invitation and introduction from MP. I have had my lip and eyebrows waxed, but I had no idea what I was getting into.
Keep in mind, I have a tattoo. I have had up to ten holes pierced in either ear. I have my nose pierced.
I'm going to venture that waxing ACTUALLY hurts more than the above.
So, for the last couple of weeks I have been growing all of my body hair until I turned into a right proper fur beast. I seriously could not stand myself any longer, so MP called Z today and set it up for after work.
MP and Z spoke a bit in a language I didn't recognize, and we went up to the spare tiny bedroom where Z works. There was a long bright fluorescent light that tinted everything blue, but I suppose it helps Z see the little hairs better, and a twin bed with a wax-stained sheet on top. On a table next to the bed were a stack of stiff strips of muslin, and a little warming unit that held half a dozen bottles of various waxes in little roll-on bottles.
MP stayed for the first pull. We started with the armpits, and dear GOD that was rough. See, the hair grows in EVERY direction under there, so getting a good rip requires hitting all the points of the compass, MANY times.
All I could think of was how I would survive the bikini line.
MP left and Z went to work. Full legs, a very thorough job on the bikini and lower butt, armpits and even the tops of my feet (yeah, there's a little bit of the Hobbit in me). The cost was significantly less than what all of that would have cost in a spa or salon, and I think Z did a much better job than I would have had if I had spent more. The armpits are still rather sore, and I did sustain a pretty livid and nasty blue-black bruise from a bad pull on the bikini line. What we do for beauty.
I did get used to it though, and even got a little zen after a while. Other thoughts I had: I'm SO taking my daughters to do this at a YOUNG age, just to get 'em used to it. Also, I hope I get some after going through all of this. I want someone to appreciate the fact that I just had myself plucked like a chicken.
Eh. I'll appreciate it. As soon as I get all the last patches of wax cleaned off.
So this discussion of dipiliation turns into an invitation and introduction from MP. I have had my lip and eyebrows waxed, but I had no idea what I was getting into.
Keep in mind, I have a tattoo. I have had up to ten holes pierced in either ear. I have my nose pierced.
I'm going to venture that waxing ACTUALLY hurts more than the above.
So, for the last couple of weeks I have been growing all of my body hair until I turned into a right proper fur beast. I seriously could not stand myself any longer, so MP called Z today and set it up for after work.
MP and Z spoke a bit in a language I didn't recognize, and we went up to the spare tiny bedroom where Z works. There was a long bright fluorescent light that tinted everything blue, but I suppose it helps Z see the little hairs better, and a twin bed with a wax-stained sheet on top. On a table next to the bed were a stack of stiff strips of muslin, and a little warming unit that held half a dozen bottles of various waxes in little roll-on bottles.
MP stayed for the first pull. We started with the armpits, and dear GOD that was rough. See, the hair grows in EVERY direction under there, so getting a good rip requires hitting all the points of the compass, MANY times.
All I could think of was how I would survive the bikini line.
MP left and Z went to work. Full legs, a very thorough job on the bikini and lower butt, armpits and even the tops of my feet (yeah, there's a little bit of the Hobbit in me). The cost was significantly less than what all of that would have cost in a spa or salon, and I think Z did a much better job than I would have had if I had spent more. The armpits are still rather sore, and I did sustain a pretty livid and nasty blue-black bruise from a bad pull on the bikini line. What we do for beauty.
I did get used to it though, and even got a little zen after a while. Other thoughts I had: I'm SO taking my daughters to do this at a YOUNG age, just to get 'em used to it. Also, I hope I get some after going through all of this. I want someone to appreciate the fact that I just had myself plucked like a chicken.
Eh. I'll appreciate it. As soon as I get all the last patches of wax cleaned off.
3.12.2005
Yeah, got a little trashed . . .
Last night was just what I needed.
I passed out by 10:10 pm. Oh yeah!
GF and I decided this morning that neither one of us remembers embarrassing ourselves too badly, and we don't appear to have done any damage to our relationship. I definitely did not flash him my knickers via webcam, and we only dredged up the past in the most nostalgic of terms.
After the posting, I added to my a cappella repertoire with a little Italian aria, "Nel Cor Piu Non Me Sento" which I had to learn for voice lessons I took in college. I love that aria, and I loved singing it. In private. I have deep-seated emotional damage about how crappy my singing voice is, and how terrifying it is for me to sing in public.
I can do just about anything in front of other people and NEVER get stage fright, but singing is a different story. I could belt out that aria in my dorm room or in the shower. But getting up in front of a hundred or so people for that afternoon voice recital was a nightmare. I barely squeaked through it. But I did it, and I think I even got an A in the class. The instructor, knowing my terror, was probably just relieved I didn't pass out and hit my head on the piano, forget that I actually finished my aria.
I tried this morning to find the lyrics to the aria, but couldn't. I remember the vague Italian translation is that the poor woman singing is so in love, but her lover's indifference causes her great pain.
. . .
At any rate, with a bottle of Pinot Grigio down the gullet, I was able to dust off the notes and words from somewhere back in my memory and sing my aria like a right proper diva. Had I only been more savvy in college to have gotten drunk before the recital . . . .
I passed out by 10:10 pm. Oh yeah!
GF and I decided this morning that neither one of us remembers embarrassing ourselves too badly, and we don't appear to have done any damage to our relationship. I definitely did not flash him my knickers via webcam, and we only dredged up the past in the most nostalgic of terms.
After the posting, I added to my a cappella repertoire with a little Italian aria, "Nel Cor Piu Non Me Sento" which I had to learn for voice lessons I took in college. I love that aria, and I loved singing it. In private. I have deep-seated emotional damage about how crappy my singing voice is, and how terrifying it is for me to sing in public.
I can do just about anything in front of other people and NEVER get stage fright, but singing is a different story. I could belt out that aria in my dorm room or in the shower. But getting up in front of a hundred or so people for that afternoon voice recital was a nightmare. I barely squeaked through it. But I did it, and I think I even got an A in the class. The instructor, knowing my terror, was probably just relieved I didn't pass out and hit my head on the piano, forget that I actually finished my aria.
I tried this morning to find the lyrics to the aria, but couldn't. I remember the vague Italian translation is that the poor woman singing is so in love, but her lover's indifference causes her great pain.
. . .
At any rate, with a bottle of Pinot Grigio down the gullet, I was able to dust off the notes and words from somewhere back in my memory and sing my aria like a right proper diva. Had I only been more savvy in college to have gotten drunk before the recital . . . .
3.11.2005
At the End of Another Long Week
I went out after work and got a manicure and a cheap bottle of Bella Sera Pinot Grigio. I got drunk via IM and a webcam with my beloved friend GF, all the way from Manchester, England to Chicago, Illinois. Now, I am repeatedly singing the chorus from the old chanty "Bottle of Wine" and amazed at my lovely lovely singing voice.
My telenovela is about to start. But before that, another cigarette, and:
"Bottle of Wine,
Fruit of the Vine,
When you gonna let me get sober,
Leave me alone
Let me go home
Let me go back and start over"
GF, another lovely conversation. Sweet dreams, sugar. It's almost 3 am there.
"When you gonna let me get so-ber. Leave me alone, let me go home, let me go back and start o-ver."
Time for my last cigarette. La vida, esta BELLLLLLLLLLA.
My telenovela is about to start. But before that, another cigarette, and:
"Bottle of Wine,
Fruit of the Vine,
When you gonna let me get sober,
Leave me alone
Let me go home
Let me go back and start over"
GF, another lovely conversation. Sweet dreams, sugar. It's almost 3 am there.
"When you gonna let me get so-ber. Leave me alone, let me go home, let me go back and start o-ver."
Time for my last cigarette. La vida, esta BELLLLLLLLLLA.
3.10.2005
For CJ and JS . . .
With whom I braved late-winter Chicago snow/sleet/freezing rain for a long leisurely dreamy-schemy lazy lunch today. The escape was brilliant and much-needed I think for all of us. Thank you for being amazing friends and my support-system during these crazy days.
CJ, when you sell out your first headlining gig in Chicago, we'll be there from wherever we are.
JS, see you in Madagascar. Or Burundi. Or Tanzania.
And if JL ends up knocking that golf ball through the window and we all get sucked out of the office building in the depressurization, it's been a slice.
CJ, when you sell out your first headlining gig in Chicago, we'll be there from wherever we are.
JS, see you in Madagascar. Or Burundi. Or Tanzania.
And if JL ends up knocking that golf ball through the window and we all get sucked out of the office building in the depressurization, it's been a slice.
So. Very. Tired.
I have managed to shock now three of my co-workers by developing a taste for coffee. This happened at 1 pm yesterday, when I was faced with the choice to either get myself a cup, or curl up under my desk for nappy time.
This must be a sign of the apocalypse.
I love it that they know me well enough to know that it is indeed shocking that I need coffee. I'm usually high-strung enough sans caffeine. But it's almost the end of the third week of my new teaching schedule and I'm a shell of a shell of a human being. However, I have let go of my Tuesday night Spanish class, so that might help. I figure I'll pick it up once I get to Venezuela.
And besides, I now use that time constructively to watch "Te Voy a Ensenhar a Querer" on Telemundo, so I'm still getting my education. Between Monday and Tuesday night alone, there was a wedding (almost), a kidnapping, a hostage-taking, and a shooting. Deborah was revealed to be a crazy murderer, and it turns out that she was never pregnant with Alejandro's baby. Dede revealed however that the father of her unborn child is actually Alejandro, and not Pablo (who is love with Camila who got kidnapped on Monday night).
Keep in mind that I don't understand much Spanish, but I'm getting good at deciphering the telenovelas. When trying to adapt to a new culture, I often turn to soap operas. I had an unholy fascination with "EastEnders" on BBC during a Eurotrash phase, for example; and as a young girl my best friend Melissa and I were addicted to "General Hospital" thanks to the influence of Meli's mom and sister. The people are so beautiful on the Spanish-language ones; and there is a lot of screaming and very earnest dialogue which I think will be useful.
Sadly, there was some soccer game between Mexico and Argentina last night that trumped my show, and I have to teach tonight so I'll miss it again. The good news is that you can catch up pretty easily on telenovelas, just like any other soap. So on Friday night, I will gather up all of the dry crackly rinds and peels that remain of me after the end of the work week, deposit myself on the couch, and find out if Alejandro is going to pull through after that gunshot wound.
This must be a sign of the apocalypse.
I love it that they know me well enough to know that it is indeed shocking that I need coffee. I'm usually high-strung enough sans caffeine. But it's almost the end of the third week of my new teaching schedule and I'm a shell of a shell of a human being. However, I have let go of my Tuesday night Spanish class, so that might help. I figure I'll pick it up once I get to Venezuela.
And besides, I now use that time constructively to watch "Te Voy a Ensenhar a Querer" on Telemundo, so I'm still getting my education. Between Monday and Tuesday night alone, there was a wedding (almost), a kidnapping, a hostage-taking, and a shooting. Deborah was revealed to be a crazy murderer, and it turns out that she was never pregnant with Alejandro's baby. Dede revealed however that the father of her unborn child is actually Alejandro, and not Pablo (who is love with Camila who got kidnapped on Monday night).
Keep in mind that I don't understand much Spanish, but I'm getting good at deciphering the telenovelas. When trying to adapt to a new culture, I often turn to soap operas. I had an unholy fascination with "EastEnders" on BBC during a Eurotrash phase, for example; and as a young girl my best friend Melissa and I were addicted to "General Hospital" thanks to the influence of Meli's mom and sister. The people are so beautiful on the Spanish-language ones; and there is a lot of screaming and very earnest dialogue which I think will be useful.
Sadly, there was some soccer game between Mexico and Argentina last night that trumped my show, and I have to teach tonight so I'll miss it again. The good news is that you can catch up pretty easily on telenovelas, just like any other soap. So on Friday night, I will gather up all of the dry crackly rinds and peels that remain of me after the end of the work week, deposit myself on the couch, and find out if Alejandro is going to pull through after that gunshot wound.
3.02.2005
Bulk Email Yields Many Happy Returns
After waxing melancholic on Saturday night, I sent a bulk email to long-lost and much-loved friends far and near. The result has been replies from like EIGHT people so far, much to my delight. I love you all, and it's been great to catch up.
I also invited everyone to check out this blog. But of course, in the initial email, I put the wrong URL. Classic Jessica, and very embarrassing. So, if you got that email and you're reading this now, congratulations on finally finding the site.
I also want to say that one of the best results was a long girly heart-to-heart on the phone tonight with Erin, who is like my sister. I realized that part of why I've felt like I've been out of touch is not only because we all have busy lives, but that I have been too tangled in my own head and not opening up to my loved ones and support system. Burkie, thanks as always for being there. I love you!
I'm a lucky person. I've lived in a lot of places and had many many lovely and intimate friendships. I'm grateful to all of you for all you have meant to me over the years, and I carry each of you with me wherever I go from here on out. :)
I also invited everyone to check out this blog. But of course, in the initial email, I put the wrong URL. Classic Jessica, and very embarrassing. So, if you got that email and you're reading this now, congratulations on finally finding the site.
I also want to say that one of the best results was a long girly heart-to-heart on the phone tonight with Erin, who is like my sister. I realized that part of why I've felt like I've been out of touch is not only because we all have busy lives, but that I have been too tangled in my own head and not opening up to my loved ones and support system. Burkie, thanks as always for being there. I love you!
I'm a lucky person. I've lived in a lot of places and had many many lovely and intimate friendships. I'm grateful to all of you for all you have meant to me over the years, and I carry each of you with me wherever I go from here on out. :)
2.28.2005
Things I will miss about Chicago
Never too early to take stock and appreciate what I got:
- Robert Morris College, Lake County. Fabulous place to teach. It's small and homey, just like UMM was. And they serve a complimentary dinner every night. It's the sweetest relief for harried students (and faculty) who blast over to campus immediately from work, and who can concentrate SO much better with a few chicken wings and some fountain pop down the gullet.
- Giordano's Pizza. Deep Dish, Chicago-style. Not to be missed. I recommend it with mushrooms and pepperoni.
- Valli Produce, my fantastic local international grocery and deli. It's like what grocery stores would be, if the UN were in the grocery business.
- April, May, and a little bit of June. Midwestern Storm Season! Snow one day, 80 degree sunshine the next, wind, rain, thunder, lightning, fire and brimstone. The weather is wild, wicked, and unpredictable during this time, unlike the rest of this region the rest of the year.
- Boystown (LakeView) and increasingly, Andersonville. I love gay culture, and Chicago is Mecca for all the gay farm boys who grew up in shit towns ranging from the Ohio Valley to the Rockies. 400,000 people at the Pride Parade last year can't be wrong!
- Dixie Kitchen, Evanston. Southern cooking: The best BBQ Chicken, cornbread, cheese grits, sweet potatoes, and cole slaw on God's good earth.
- Diversity. If you want it, we've got it. Across the nation and around the world, if it exists, I defy you to NOT find it in Chicago.
- Tall-Ass Buildings. Birthplace of the skyscraper, Chicago will ruin you ever after for other skylines. Get a window seat when you fly in from anywhere, or if you fly out and head east.
- The Lake. Though decidedly not the ocean, nothing is more still and serene than looking east over Lake Michigan in January, as the sun sets behind you and the tones of blue deepen into black, and the planes like enormous stars hover over the horizon in holding patterns, bound for O'Hare.
Things I will take with me to South America
- My Stainless-Steel Rack-and-Pinion Citrus Juicer. (I drink the juice of 1/2 a lemon in a quart of water every day. Without this, I am nothing)
- Mojo Cat. (claro)
- My Flame-colored, Cast-iron Le Creuset Cookware and Poterie. (I don't cook. But if I ever do, I want my pots and pans to be FLAME colored.)
- My Shrine to the Virgin of Guadaloupe. (Nuestra Senora, pray for us.)
- My bilingual copy of Neruda's Cien sonetos de amor
- Laptop (fully loaded)
- Camera (also loaded)
- Clothes, Shoes, Make-up, accessories. (within reason)
- A Handful of Favorite books in English (Another copy of The English Patient because I keep giving them away, The Phantom Tollbooth, Wuthering Heights, some short stories, some Chaucer, monographs by photographers Nan Goldin, Sally Mann, William Eggleston Boris Mikhailov.)
I will refer to this list again in a few months when I'm trying to hire Sherpas to haul my crap for me. Or pricing out freight containers. Or calling the airlines for baggage size and weight limits.
The Corporate Demagogues Have Smiled Down Upon Me . . .
And given me my annual bonus. Praise Allah.
It's not as much as I'd hoped (what ever is, really?), but I have no complaints.
Tomorrow, I will reserve a meager few dollars for a trip to get some sun, or some lovin', or both. Or neither. Depends on where I end up. And with whom.
And the rest of it is an installment toward my ransom, payable to MBNA America.
The shackles, I feel them loosening a little more. It's almost March.
It's not as much as I'd hoped (what ever is, really?), but I have no complaints.
Tomorrow, I will reserve a meager few dollars for a trip to get some sun, or some lovin', or both. Or neither. Depends on where I end up. And with whom.
And the rest of it is an installment toward my ransom, payable to MBNA America.
The shackles, I feel them loosening a little more. It's almost March.
Welcome the World, my new bloggers
A new generation of blogstars was born at RMC Lake County tonight. My students in ART 205 have begun their photo blogfolios. Good luck, and email me if you have any questions!
Chic and Capable!
AK took this photo of me harvesting yucca in Venezuela, July 2004. This is the only plant I pulled, and I think Pepe even loosened it for me. We were at the family's finca outside Valencia. I was, of course, totally not dressed for the occasion; shod in flip-flops and wandering through fields of yucca, pineapple, and avocado trees. A few minutes later, a mean-ass little ant bit my toe. Pepe had to rescue me, and it hurt so much that I got to practice swearing in Spanish, much to the delight of both Pepe and AK.
2.26.2005
The Thread Unravelling
It's been nearly 10 years since I started college. Machias, and my life at the University of Maine in general was so formative, and so monumental to me at the time and in the years afterward, that it is with great poignance that I realize that it's really over. And has been.
Yes, I graduated years ago. And yes, I'm nowhere near the same person now that I was then. It feels like there have been several intervening lifetimes since then as a matter of fact. But I've lost touch with so many who were once so close and so dear.
I've known this, but have stubbornly denied the evidence. But the notion really came home to roost this evening. Last night, Nick and Erin phoned, but I was out so I waited to return the call until today. They are two of my most loved and dearest friends from the college days and we've stayed close. But after about a half hour spent catching up on the latest, there's not much more to say. So, I tell them I love them and say goodbye.
I then decided to return Head's call from a few weeks ago. I've decided that this must be the last time I use her ubiquitous college nickname and now call her "Jen." I have actively avoided doing this for years now, and not that it matters or that she cares. But the "Jen" of today is nowhere near the person "Head" was then. But I still see the farm girl with the Manic Panicked Green crewcut, despite the years and years of long honeyed curls since then. Despite that she's been married to her college sweetheart for over 5 years. So I call Jen and catch up on our mutual friends: who is where, how they are doing, who's had a baby, who's getting married, etc.
Then, there's not much else to say.
I know that this happens. It's part of life that as time goes by, the current picks up each one of us and floats us toward our different fates, and that we steer our little boats the best we can and we navigate the changes in our lives. But I miss my girls, who are no longer girls. We are mothers, wives, professionals, women. We are approaching 30. Gone are bedtime poems, parties that lasted for days, marijuana and Jim Beam or SoCo, the band, the patched-up mens' jeans, the piercings, the road trips, the laughter.
But somewhere, in another place and time, Machias lives on. It's winter there, and a carousing cadre of girls, young women, are wearing flannel pajama pants, storming into one another's dorm rooms, padding down the hallway in flipflops, borrowing a condom from a neighbor, cramming for an exam, ignoring the ringing hallway phone . . . all the while completely unaware that this will not last forever, and indeed, it's already over.
Yes, I graduated years ago. And yes, I'm nowhere near the same person now that I was then. It feels like there have been several intervening lifetimes since then as a matter of fact. But I've lost touch with so many who were once so close and so dear.
I've known this, but have stubbornly denied the evidence. But the notion really came home to roost this evening. Last night, Nick and Erin phoned, but I was out so I waited to return the call until today. They are two of my most loved and dearest friends from the college days and we've stayed close. But after about a half hour spent catching up on the latest, there's not much more to say. So, I tell them I love them and say goodbye.
I then decided to return Head's call from a few weeks ago. I've decided that this must be the last time I use her ubiquitous college nickname and now call her "Jen." I have actively avoided doing this for years now, and not that it matters or that she cares. But the "Jen" of today is nowhere near the person "Head" was then. But I still see the farm girl with the Manic Panicked Green crewcut, despite the years and years of long honeyed curls since then. Despite that she's been married to her college sweetheart for over 5 years. So I call Jen and catch up on our mutual friends: who is where, how they are doing, who's had a baby, who's getting married, etc.
Then, there's not much else to say.
I know that this happens. It's part of life that as time goes by, the current picks up each one of us and floats us toward our different fates, and that we steer our little boats the best we can and we navigate the changes in our lives. But I miss my girls, who are no longer girls. We are mothers, wives, professionals, women. We are approaching 30. Gone are bedtime poems, parties that lasted for days, marijuana and Jim Beam or SoCo, the band, the patched-up mens' jeans, the piercings, the road trips, the laughter.
But somewhere, in another place and time, Machias lives on. It's winter there, and a carousing cadre of girls, young women, are wearing flannel pajama pants, storming into one another's dorm rooms, padding down the hallway in flipflops, borrowing a condom from a neighbor, cramming for an exam, ignoring the ringing hallway phone . . . all the while completely unaware that this will not last forever, and indeed, it's already over.
2.24.2005
Through Sheer Force of Will . . .
I return to my blog. I'm freakin' exhausted. This week begins my new schedule of classes four nights a week, on top of my indenture at Corporate HQ during the day. I'm going to tinker in PhotoShop on some of those pix from the High School before I take some Nyquil and pass out.
On a positive note, I think that I will derive much energy, both creative and soul-generative, from my new crop of students. I love the way that seasons change in academic settings, and how you can reinvent yourself and your curriculum with each new term. Every 10 weeks, there is the opportunity for a fresh start. And I was so fucked up in January that it's time for life again, the way I want it to be.
Some things I'm concerned about tonight:
On a positive note, I think that I will derive much energy, both creative and soul-generative, from my new crop of students. I love the way that seasons change in academic settings, and how you can reinvent yourself and your curriculum with each new term. Every 10 weeks, there is the opportunity for a fresh start. And I was so fucked up in January that it's time for life again, the way I want it to be.
Some things I'm concerned about tonight:
- getting caught up on my work at my day job
- the fact that my cat is too fat to clean her ass anymore
- getting run down
- being a good teacher
- getting my bonus, and it being substantial
- Pepe's heart
- getting a weekend away with someone I love, who I don't see very often
2.14.2005
Her Majesty's Satanic Request
Thank God for AK.
See, folks, the reason why she's a teacher is that she inspires the youth. And she kicks my ass, which is always a good thing. She's reminding me again, as she did in college, that I AM A CREATIVE INDIVIDUAL. And she's prompted me to move to Venezuela with her this summer. Everyone should have a friend like her.
See, at her suggestion I've started this blog, and actually keep up with it. This is good. But I'm also a photographer, and you'll notice if you trip through the archives a particular shortage of photographs.
But no longer! Thanks to her gentle reminders, I have once again allowed my dear friend to influence me for the better. Below are three photos I took on a recent trip to Mexico, corrected and uploaded at long last.
And let me take this opportunity to say Happy Valentine's Day to AK for today, FELIIIIIIIIZ CUMPLEAAAAAAANHOS for tomorrow, and Buen Viaje for her imminent trip to Venezuela next week. Have a Polar Ice for me, baby, and have a great time!
See, folks, the reason why she's a teacher is that she inspires the youth. And she kicks my ass, which is always a good thing. She's reminding me again, as she did in college, that I AM A CREATIVE INDIVIDUAL. And she's prompted me to move to Venezuela with her this summer. Everyone should have a friend like her.
See, at her suggestion I've started this blog, and actually keep up with it. This is good. But I'm also a photographer, and you'll notice if you trip through the archives a particular shortage of photographs.
But no longer! Thanks to her gentle reminders, I have once again allowed my dear friend to influence me for the better. Below are three photos I took on a recent trip to Mexico, corrected and uploaded at long last.
And let me take this opportunity to say Happy Valentine's Day to AK for today, FELIIIIIIIIZ CUMPLEAAAAAAANHOS for tomorrow, and Buen Viaje for her imminent trip to Venezuela next week. Have a Polar Ice for me, baby, and have a great time!
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