I Hate November

I hate November. Everything seems so off to me, and that's just not right. I cannot read an entire book, I refuse to feed or clean my house and family, I am not amused with red leaves. Late fall in Oklahoma is also dry, windy, and surprisingly bleak. I'm just going to have to be silly for a little bit, if only to alleviate my fucking ennui.
1. Laughing Babies. Give me the baby!
Baby coveting aside, this little dude is totally going to grow to be the guy at the party who laughs at all of your jokes. I love that guy.
2. Mozart's Concerto #22. The happiest song I've ever heard.
3. Summer Nights. What did you do this summer, Sandy? Shoo Ba Ba Bop!
4. The Dali Lama. This speech is called the Nobel Lecture.

The realisation that we are all basically the same human beings, who seek happiness and try to avoid suffering, is very helpful in developing a sense of brotherhood and sisterhood; a warm feeling of love and compassion for others. This, in turn, is essential if we are to survive in this ever shrinking world we live in. For if we each selfishly pursue only what we believe to be in our own interest, without caring about the needs of others, we not only may end up harming others but also ourselves. This fact has become very clear during the course of this century. We know that to wage a nuclear war today, for example, would be a form of suicide; or that by polluting the air or the oceans, in order to achieve some short-term benefit, we are destroying the very basis for our survival. As interdependents, therefore, we have no other choice than to develop what I call a sense of universal responsibility.

Today, we are truly a global family.

5 The I Has Series. This picture tickles my funny bone. Don't judge!

Brave New World

Last night America voted in her first African-American president. As I watched the booing and hissing crowd at McCains resignation speech, and then the ecstatic and weeping melee at Grant Park, I tried to feel something more than patience and relief. It seemed as though everyone else's emotions were riding very high; espousing alternatively doom or glory, defeat or victory one's tongue was either Blue or Red, Right or Wrong. I said nothing. I don't care that he is black. I don't care that he doesn't have any military service. I don't care that he is young. What I care about is myself, my family, and my environment and in those regards, Obama has won a very difficult position for the next four years. If history repeats itself Obama will be successful. He seems to be a positive and motivating agent of change. If he can bridge the gulf between parties or race or age he is a miracle man. But easy does it, America. The last streamer has fallen and the signs are coming down and now it's time to enact that word change. Slowly.
I am fortunate, however, to live through such events. It is good to see people glad to call themselves American again and good to once again be welcomed by the rest of the world.

I like it a LOT!

Check out what I learned today...

Jen

Jen is the cardinal virtue of Confucianism. The term is perhaps best translated as "human-heartedness." As Huston Smith explains:

"Jen involves simultaneously a feeling of humanity toward others and respect for oneself, an indivisible sense of the dignity of human life wherever it appears. Subsidiary attitudes follow automatically: magnanimity, good faith, and charity. In the direction of jen lies the perfection of everything that would make one supremely human. In public life it prompts untiring diligence. In private life it is expressed in courtesy, unselfishness, and empathy, the capacity to 'measure the feelings of others by one's own.' . . .'The person of jen, desiring self-affirmation, seeks to affirm as well.' Such largeness of heart knows no national boundaries for those who are jen-endowed know that 'within the four seas all men are brothers and sisters.'"

This is awesome.

Gloriousness!

There are two unrealized dreams of mine that I have laid to rest because, I now know, I don't stand a chance at either of them. C'est la vie. One of them was to become a rock and roll star. I wanted to wear wet leather on a stage of fire a la Lita Ford. I cannot sing. The second was to become a dancer, and I cannot dance either. Solid Gold is off the air anyways.

Apple fisted...again

Where is my music? Why did all of my music on my Ipod disappear this morning? I am not freaking out. I am not freaking out. It's somewhere on my computer, yeah? I am not cool with this. I am breathing and resisting my natural impulse to call up the Apple Corporation and get a stooge to help me find my music and also pick a fight with him. I'm gonna need two Wellies today and a lot of chocolate.

Who are you, again?

I love to scour the celebrity blogs online. It's a genetic thing. But lately there seems to be a plethora of new actors, hangers-on, wannabe's, socialites and even films and musical acts all of whom I have never heard of. This is an unnatural thing. Who the hell are these people? My investigation:
Ryan Adams: A musician? He has a beef with Courtney Love.
Girls Aloud: A British girl group.
The Watchmen: ? Glow In the Dark Eyes a good guy/anti-hero?
Lauren Conrad: Actress. Is she also "Lo", or is that another girl?
Demi Loveto/Selena Gomez: Jr. Disney girls. Beef with Sr. Disney Girl.
Kristen Bell: No idea.
Jonas Brothers: Boy Band of brothers.
Pete Doherty/Amy Winehouse: Junkies.
Twilight: A vampire book series.
Emmy Rossum: Edwardian-looking singer.
Spiedy: Vacuous duo extraordinaire.
Ryan Gosling: Actor. Nerd.
Gossip Girl: Teenage\witless Sex and the City.
My investigation remains open because now I have to pull back from tabloid fodder and go back to work. Too many bigger fish to fry like insurance, mortgage, education, vaccinations, television, gas prices, peeling paint, grey hairs, groceries, plumbers, kids, spouse, parents, dog, retirement, day care, library books, and melanoma. Tomorrow is another day Khloe Kardashian.

We Only Know Them When They Are Gone

I enjoy looking for symbolism in my everyday, mundane life. It is a fun game to play. Some of my favorites: watching two people bicker under a stop sign, swearing off booze then receiving wine glasses as a gift, a white butterfly when I'm in a pickle....stuff like that tickles me. One of my very favorite symbols is that of the angel. I am not a religious person, so I'm not describing a heavenly being. If you disregard the religious aspect of the angel you have a random human embodying a good and kind virtue, an act that illuminates your soul if only for a moment. These are the strangers that enter your life to help you and then disappear; they are the ones that pick up your papers when your hands are full, they give you their place in line when your baby is screaming, they provide jumper cables when your car is dead. You thank them and then they are gone and it strikes you that their assistance and warmth was no mere coincidence. That person was an angel.

I only bring this topic up because the other day I experienced the most serendipitous angelic incidence ever. I was having a bad day; I was Fat and Ugly. I'm not really fat or ugly, I'm an average person, but what can I say? It was one of those days. I decided to go for a walk and get some fresh air. Barely into my first block, I pass two women on the sidewalk. They are of the Venus of Wilendorf ilk and were chattering together as I smiled and sidestepped. One of the women, the bleach blond in the white tank top said, "See? This is why we walk. To be skinny like you." I am so taken aback I responded with "Oh. Gosh!". They continue on and I no longer feel fat. Instead, I am invigorated and take a long, indulgent walk but again creeps up this terrible suspicion that I am ugly-more than ugly. As I walk and beat my self esteem into a pulp, I notice a shabby white Volvo driving around and around our neighborhood. Tulsa's labyrinthine streets often confuse drivers so I wasn't particularly interested but then the car slows and the driver, a young (and cute!) man still in his mall-clothes phase, motions for me to take my earbuds out. I do so. I thought he needed directions. He says to me, "I just wanted to tell you, I think you are really pretty." Happiness! I have the wherewithal to thank him, and then, "Are you lost?" "No," he says. I am not a flirt so our conversation did not last very long, but my heart was racing. Yea! All of the dark and stupid thoughts are gone. I am skinny and really pretty. And the only logical explanation of these circumstances are angels. Who else could administer a more perfect (and well timed) remedy? Angels are such a lovely symbol, and one worth paying attention to.

Let's Explode, Ya'll

My brain, at this moment, is a labyrinth of information. What do you need to know? Is is pertinent, or useful, or exciting? I'm afraid that I can't help you with that, but if you are interested in something, say, centuries old, with a certain musty/elitist/je ce c est quoi about it than I'm your girl. Ok, I'm just going to get this off of my shoulders.
1. Art is not math. I can, and will, have a different opinion about what makes a masterpiece and what makes something that will really please Grandma. I will be as correct as you will be, albeit less refined. I am young!
2. Art is hard. Have you tried to stand up in front of people for many, many hours while they are looking at you with that strange student expression that lies between ignorance and knowledge and try, for the life of you-try to make them understand why they should know the differences between Late Baroque and the Rococo? Because you know it, and you care, you stand there like a cartoon espousing Germain Boffrand's contribution to the world and they don't care.
3. Art is going to make me fat. How long have I sat here, working on this class? I am, for the first time in my life, engaging in emotional eating. My ass shall soon engulf this little office. I miss my family. I miss going on walks. I miss T.V.
Maybe I am not cut out for this line of work after all. But what else can I do? I am a rare bird.
Perhaps I will take some comfort in Rembrandt: Practise what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know.

The Gay Inside: A List

Gay folks are all over the place, and if truth be told I really like some of the stuff they like. For instance, the word tulle. Gorgeous, but definitely not straight. So here is another top ten list of mine, this time its the Top Ten Gay Stuff I Really Like (As A Straight Person).
10. An American in Paris. Pink/Plaid? Definitely Pink.My heart beats it's little wings with love every single time I hear Gershwin's score for the ballet. I swoon when I think of Jerry and Lisa at the fountain. I have to thank Mr. B.J. Wexler for showing this on the OETA Movie Club that one fate filled night I was allowed to stay up and it was the only thing on. On a scale of 1-10 of fabulousness this is a solid 8. Gush, gush, gush!
9. Tegan and Sara. Pink/Plaid? Plaid, bitches. These lovely ladies are quiet distinct: they're gifted,twins, and both lesbians. Holy Crow. The Con was one of the best albums last year. So good, in fact, when I was flipping through the channels and caught their interview on Logo, I had a pause. Calm down, I'm calling back to say I'm coming around. Encircle me.
8. Porn. Pink/Plaid? Pink by a wee margin. One could argue that pornography is for both sexes and for all sexualities, and to a degree you'd be right. But isn't a little gay to watch someone of your own sex engaged in the act of intercourse, regardless of which sort of body they happen to be with? A vicarious fuck places you in the body of not only the catcher but the pitcher as well. Moreover, even if a heterosexual man is reviewing a lesbian act, this is endorsing an act of homosexuality. Needless to say, gay porn is pretty gay too.
7. Michelangelo. Pink/Plaid? Pink. I'm an Art person. Maybe not a great one, but that's besides the point. Michelangelo paved the way for the modern artist to have a little personality, a little self respect. Oh, and he was a genius. A genius that might literally be in a class of his own, and the man was so gay he painted 20 "ignudi" on the Sistine Chapel. And they were beautiful.
6. Judy Chicago. Pink/Plaid? Plaid, but in a Nunnish sort of way. Judy Chicago is another artist but she's no Michelangelo;I don't think she's even gay. She is, however, a force of Feminist Nature to the point where she might make you gay. The Dinner Party was so brilliant, and so vaginal, that intellectually you could conceive of having pussy for dinner. Strange but true.
5. Magic. Pink/Plaid? Plaid. I'm not thinking of smoke and mirrors, tricks or illusions, I'm thinking of the real deal: the Old Ways. All of the ancient (pre-BCE 5000ish) religions were the same in the beginning, and they were based on women. Women were the pocessors of arcane knowledge and healers. Put a couple of them together and you've got yourself a sexy bunch of ladies who really know how to tap into the mother power.
4. Couture. Pink/Plaid. The most ravishing pink in the universe. Only gay men would be so unfamiliar/masochistic to a woman's body as to conjure up a painful, delicate, expensive gown for her to worship. After she is starved into her dress, she is coated with paint on her face, her hair is whipped into submission, and her feet are forced into shoes that were never meant to be worn; this grotesque transformation of a mere female into the embodiment of a goddess would be unthinkable without the effete.
3. Madonna. Pink/Plaid? The rare entry that could be said to be both; she is the pink plaid. Madonna is the bad girl I wish I could be, she's the diva gay men wish they could be. Here is a woman acting as she would, one who reportedly has a penis in her head, and she looks like a million bucks. Go Madonna.
2. Camp. Pink/Plaid. Both. This is not a sleepover, this is a party. A toast to Camp (cue the DJ). Here is to the 50's, 70's and the new millennium. To velvet and hairspray and hasty decisions made at midnight. Here is to blood and beauty, to equality and glamour. May you never leave Camp, and may Camp live forever.
1. Gay People. Pink/Plaid? Rainbows of both. Kisses to all my gay homies, thanks for all of this lovely stuff, and the things I couldn't come up with but they're out there. You make me feel mighty real!

Lazy Bones Jones

I'm enjoying my break from work. I have lots and lots of free time now. What have I done with myself? Nothing. I've enjoyed this immensely. The views are impeccable. But as time wears on, I find that my surplus of extracurricular activity grows small and I need to get back to work. Dammit.

Art. Do you like art? To me, art is the definitive human expression. I know that this could be debated until doomsday, but in me you'll find a capable defender. So why am I lagging? Maybe because I won't have time like this until a year from now, or 20 years from now; it's hard to tell. I just want to eat Doritos, watch foreign movies, and drink those yummy lime flavored beers.
Strength. I need to be strong. Go back to art. Think...renaissance. Think....Cimabue. Think....Kagemusha!

Suspended Animation

Identity theft; a thing of Dateline fodder, conspiricists' diatribe, and as of today, a huge mess that I get to clean up. Somebody stole my identity! Apparently, this person or persons have been going on some joy rides on my ticket for a while now. I just don't know what to think? I'm not Oprah, you know, there really isn't that much to steal nor is the identity in question that wonderful. I'm just a girl....with no identity!
The worst part about it all are the telluric, cynical, doughy sorts that inhabit the cubicles which hold the various papers I must sign and pass, sign and pass. I wonder who or what gets their turgid fluids flowing? George Clooney....or President Bush....or perhaps this? There's no way to know! I am at a loss! Everyone is suspect! Except me, that's one. And my husband, two.
The best part about it is that there isn't a best part. It makes for a very dashing yet terrifying ghost story to tell the moms at T-Ball practice. Unless one of those bitches did it. Which reminds me, I need to clear the air:
An Open Letter to the Person(s) With My Identity,
HAHAHAHAHA! I have nothing! Suck on that!

The Bookseller

When they were younger, my parents had a variety of kooky money making schemes. There was the construction company that my dad ran; good for the family larder, not so great for quality dad time as dad was never home. Also under this heading: my mom as full time career gal. Good for Rosie the Riveter morale, but bad for parental patience when the father figure is absent (see above). Then there was the dad as college student poverty days, dad as cattleman/child labor boss, dad as a high school art teacher who could finally bond with children even if they were not his own. Ah, childhood. My favorite, as well as the briefest of these episodes, was the bookstore. My parents are bookphiles, a good and great thing for people to be. I am one myself.
It is difficult for second hand booksellers to make a profit, a lesson as a family we learned first hand. Books are lovable but not bankable. Knowing this as I do, I cherish the independent bookseller. I'll choose a preowned book before a new one, simply because I know of the struggle people endure just to open the doors to business. I do not, however, like this feeling of loyalty to be taken advantage of. Point in case, Gardners. One million books! An acre of store space! Eccentric employees! This is literally an emporium of used books. Everything under the sun can be found here if one is diligent in their search, and I am nothing if not ruthless in my quest for an exceptional personal library.
Today my library may shed a tear because today I was ripped off by Gardners. I was overcharged for the last time today ($8.95 for a chewed up copy of the Tao te Ching. Shameless!). I have carried the cross of affection too long for this store, arguably the best and certainly the largest of its kind in Tulsa. I am overcharged every time I go in there. I don't mind a little padding because (see above) I love books, but come on! Enough already. Damn it. This means I'll have to start buying new books, which means less books. What does the Tao say to comfort me in my distress?
Men are born soft and supple; dead, they are stiff and hard. Plants are born tender and pliant; dead, they are brittle and dry. Thus whomever is still and inflexible is a disciple of death. Whoever is soft and yielding is a disciple of life. The hard and still will be broken. The soft and supple will prevail.

Yea! Let's Go Outside!!!

It's 85 degrees, the sun is shining....it's spring. Finally!!!
This year I'm going to try to grow chicks and hens, more lavender, corn, and of course tomatoes. Maybe this will be my year!

Cooties

I am as bad as a man when I am unwell. The Princess and the Pea has nothing on me. Let me elaborate on my condition, gather round. My head is at once achy and floaty and unwilling to think. My body is like that Britney song, " Cause I'm cold as fire baby, hot as ice", which until this moment never made sense to me. I want to vomit. I am crabby, petulant, and without merit. Boo hoo, I'm fucking sick. It's times like these that I'm glad I'm a nobody. Did you hear that Elizabeth Taylor had it worked into her Cleopatra contract that she recieved a week off every month so that she could menstrate in peace? I know, I know, Cleopatra was a disaster, this was just another nail in that coffin, but come on. I am laid low by a nasty, potentially debilitating for several days bacterial something, and she gets a week off for her period? Nobodies have got the Somebodies beat in this race. At least my hissy fits are not published ............................................oh wait.
By the by, ginger and carrot juice are very good for common ailments. Add 1/4 cup of grated ginger to a hot bath, as well as epsom salt, and soak until you're wrinkled. Drink carrot juice several times throughout the day, as well as kombucha tea. Rest. Now go away.

My Objective is Exhilarating!

The other day in class I showed my students a documentary called "The Art and Sport of Fashion", which was made somewhere around 1987. Did you see the Brenda Dickson "Welcome to my Home" video circulating the internet about four months ago? This fashion documentary is better (or worse if you are not inclined toward FANTASY and GLAMOR). The costume designer from Dynasty is featured as well as the costume head from Miami Vice. Models catwalk to Huey Lewis and the News. Eurotrash accessory designers preen in their own creations made from preserved turkey feet and scorpions. Sequins and chiffons are everywhere. There was one point in the documentary that every student burst out laughing it was so absurd and over the top. The art vocabulary for the day was Kitsch. I kid you not. Most seemed to have fun with it but there were some (boys) who couldn't deal with "fags or fashion".

Occasionally I feel like both an educator and an entertainer. Their education is not deprived nor is money misspent. Students walk away from my classes thinking about art in new or different ways than before they enrolled. They begin to see art everywhere as I do, which is what I really teach. If I choose to illustrate Kitsch by showing a vulgar, pretentious documentary 21 years old, I do so because it is fun and memorable as well as a valid learning experience. These students of mine believe, as I used to believe, that the forces of style and beauty are not just contemporary and youthful but eternal. After watching this trashy bit of dated fashion who also modeled itself as being contemporary, young and eternal, maybe they will gain a new perspective. As for the students who did not like the documentary they will nevertheless always remember the word kitsch.


This is my goal in any case. I find that I must pick up on as much knowledge as they must in order to successfully complete the course. It is strange and ironic that as I grade their competency, they evaluate mine.

Let the reign of holy Electric Light finally come…

Sweet God my power is back on. So cold and dark for so long....
The boys and I were stationed at the home base during the power loss from the ice storm for five days. We had it better than many. I've heard stories of people dying from carbon monoxide poisoning, from fire started by candles, from risking the Russian Roulette that is the Tulsa four way and losing. We were cold, put out and bored, but we made it through.
I tried to make it a game for them called Pioneer days. The food was kept in our garage and as it hovered around freezing everyday nothing was spoiled. It was novel to have food outside of the fridge for them. We stocked up on what candles (our house smelled like a florist shop!) and batteries that were available to purchase, and bought more minutes for the cell phone that was recharged at Mike's workplace (why doesn't the car charger work?). And everyone got his own flashlight, two lucky finds from the bottom of the Big Lots barrel. We have a gas fireplace in the living room that kept the house moderately warm, and a gas stove top and water heater so we were able to cook and bathe.
It was most tedious at night. What sunlight we had died around five o'clock leaving us in the relative darkness, save candles and flashlights, for hours. I brought out the Geotracks box from the garage which I am loath to do because there are hundreds of little pieces to this noisy little train set, but it kept the boys occupied which saved some of my thinning patience. During the day, once the streets were clear of the fallen tree limbs, we went to the mall, the aquarium, any where that was lit and warm; everywhere we went we met others in our situation. Literally everyone was affected.
Our power came back on during a trip to the laundromat. We ran around the house turning things on as if it was a miracle. Now there is snow on the ground, and we are barred inside again, but we have television, and computers, the coffee machine, microwave, and lights, lights, lights! Bless the power service people from Oklahoma and beyond who have been working 24 hours a day to restore us to electricity, and the tree people for helping us to clear the colossal mountains of branches and debris from our property.

The Golden Compass

I will be honest and state that I never heard of this book before someone forwarded me an email warning me to safeguard my children against the film version. All I gathered from this little epistle was that Hollywood is corruptive, evil, and that somehow the devil had his hand in this business. I can't describe how disappointed I was in my friend for being so narrow minded and believing that I would likewise share her opinion. So many people are absolutely rabid when it comes to a perceived threat against their faith. I am rabid when I perceive a threat against my freedom from faith.
I was born here and raised here in the Christian faith (a Baptist, no less) but I have found that organized religion, any organized religion, is inherently flawed. Religions are just too human. Why would God or Goddess or whomever is in control (should such a thing exist) hold us in such high esteem? I do not believe that we humans are good or bad any more than I think of sparrows as good or bad. I don't know what happens after we die, nor where we came from before we were born. But to ask me to consider the dictates of one groups' interpretation over another in regard to a Divine Figure whose will can never be seen, heard, felt, or understood is asking too much of me.
By the by, the book is intelligent and well written. I haven't finished it yet, but I am engaged by it. You can go to the Golden Compass website and "find" your daemon (the physical manifestation of the soul). My daemon is an ocelot. Meow.