I noticed yesterday that of the several talented, generous, intelligent, hardworking, attractive women with whom I've interacted recently only one is financially solvent. Apparently it takes more than talent, generosity, intelligence, hard work and beauty to be free of money worry.
Also yesterday, a good friend who is about my age announced she is dedicating herself to becoming "financially competent." She's on an earnest mission now to get wise about and pay attention to her finances.
I asked her to share what she learns but this morning I realized that I don't have money and I actually don't want any. (I only want it because other people want me to have it so I can give it to them in rent and cell phone charges.) So, I'm getting just what I want.
I ate leftover West Indian food tonight while reading a newspaper article about The 50% League, a club whose members voluntarily give away at least half of what they make or inherit. They also said it gives them a great feeling.
I feel left out. I want to experience that great feeling. I've changed my mind. I DO want to become financially solvent and competent.
So I can join The 50% League.
Stay tuned.
29 July 2007
I Can't Feel My Legs...
Another Boston sojourn.
It's one of those towns that feels paradoxically like a place I've never been before and a place I've never left. It feels like America. What I mean is: it's hard to find my way around Boston--even with a map. And, so far, I can't find a way into Boston--even after friends have introduced me to their favorite restaurants and museums and pubs and I've spent weeks of intuitive wandering around on foot and riding public transit.
I can't find or feel the heart and soul of this place.
I've come to Boston three times now, always by invitation. And yet, I feel again like it doesn't make much difference to Boston that I'm here, no big deal to Boston if I stay or if I go.
I don't feel insulted or abused. Don't feel despised or misunderstood. Don't feel awkward or afraid. Just feel like a superfluous element in a set that could be the backdrop for everywhere or nowhere.
I feel hypnotized or anesthetized. Like I'm moving in only two dimensions. Like not all of my cells survived the trip through the Transporter.
I think about Boston and then I think about New Orleans --where I move in no fewer than three dimensions -- and somehow I'm reminded of Tina Turner's spoken word intro to "Proud Mary"...
You know
Every now and then
I think you’d might like to hear something from us
Nice and easy
But there’s just one thing, you see
We never ever do nothin’ nice and easy
We always do it nice and rough
But we’re gonna take the beginning of this song and do it easy
But then we’re gonna do the finish rough
That’s the way we do
Proud Mary
23 July 2007
Love for the South
Granted it’s been less than two years since I arrived, and the only places I’ve lived are New Orleans and Gulfport, and I have heard “white” politicians say things in public here that they’d be loathe to whisper in private most places I’ve lived, and for most of my stay I’ve been blessed to park above the poverty line; but at this point I’d have to say the South is not nearly the hell hole I expected it to be. I know that if I lived in a rural area or on welfare chances are good I’d file a very different report…
For a long time I was afraid to come down here after all the blatant and implied caveats I heard growing up in Indiana. I just knew, as dark as my skin was and with so little “common sense” (my mother’s frequent criticism), venturing into Dixie would have been tantamount to asking to die young. So I stayed away. And, as much as possible, looked the other way; horrible things happened to black people in the South and I felt guilty sometimes about the relative privilege and security I enjoyed as a resident of the North.
I suspect if I’d known there was some place in the States where people still use butter and sugar and smoke cigarettes without apology, where people speak to each other in passing even if they don’t know you, where you don’t have to have a cell phone and voicemail to actively participate in community life, where the posted speed limit in school zones is actually observed, and where hardly anybody is in a hurry to do anything, I’d have made my way southward a long time ago.
It’s not Paradise here. I have a few complaints I could make if it would do any good. But the whole thing about race relations? Well, the grossly exaggerated propaganda I heard prior to coming does not square up with my experience. Specifically, I’m relishing how “white” people here seem to take my blackness for granted. Like they’ve been thinking whatever they think about black folk for a long time. As compared to Northerners who seem to be trying so hard to either recover from or mask their racism. Like they have something to prove to themselves or to me and it’s going to take a long time in either case.
Except for a few times among Unitarian Universalists (a group/movement notoriously and perennially unsettled about racial identity), I’ve been more comfortable and unstressed and un-self-conscious about being “colored” than ever before in my life. In fact, I’m more comfortable and unstressed and un-self-conscious generally since coming here.
Now if I can just develop a social network of folks who like to read and some artists and a few sex perverts and maybe find some men to date…
For a long time I was afraid to come down here after all the blatant and implied caveats I heard growing up in Indiana. I just knew, as dark as my skin was and with so little “common sense” (my mother’s frequent criticism), venturing into Dixie would have been tantamount to asking to die young. So I stayed away. And, as much as possible, looked the other way; horrible things happened to black people in the South and I felt guilty sometimes about the relative privilege and security I enjoyed as a resident of the North.
I suspect if I’d known there was some place in the States where people still use butter and sugar and smoke cigarettes without apology, where people speak to each other in passing even if they don’t know you, where you don’t have to have a cell phone and voicemail to actively participate in community life, where the posted speed limit in school zones is actually observed, and where hardly anybody is in a hurry to do anything, I’d have made my way southward a long time ago.It’s not Paradise here. I have a few complaints I could make if it would do any good. But the whole thing about race relations? Well, the grossly exaggerated propaganda I heard prior to coming does not square up with my experience. Specifically, I’m relishing how “white” people here seem to take my blackness for granted. Like they’ve been thinking whatever they think about black folk for a long time. As compared to Northerners who seem to be trying so hard to either recover from or mask their racism. Like they have something to prove to themselves or to me and it’s going to take a long time in either case.
Except for a few times among Unitarian Universalists (a group/movement notoriously and perennially unsettled about racial identity), I’ve been more comfortable and unstressed and un-self-conscious about being “colored” than ever before in my life. In fact, I’m more comfortable and unstressed and un-self-conscious generally since coming here.
Now if I can just develop a social network of folks who like to read and some artists and a few sex perverts and maybe find some men to date…
19 July 2007
They Don't Think I'm Funny in Kansas
After a couple hours of piano work tonight, I took out the trash and ran into my neighbor and his friend, out in the parking lot working on his car. As I passed the door to #6, it opened and Tony came out. All three men started talking at once (people do that), stumbling over each other to comment on the music. "There's the piano lady!" "Thank you, Ma'am, for the music!" "That's some mighty fine piano playing!"
I slid into my southern voice (I do that these days) and we chatted for awhile about taking music lessons as a child, about the difficulty (for one of them) of finding time/making time in a grown-up life to play music, about playing in the band in junior high...starting off on trumpet, moving to cornet and later to drums.
I am the Piano Lady to these men and the rest of my neighbors. They all seem to stand up a little straighter when I walk by. They're always flawlessly polite. They nudge their kids into good behavior and respectful greetings when I pass by. They all call me "Ma'am" and "Miss Alex." The noisy neighbors lower their voices if they're being rowdy in the courtyard when I return home.
Somebody ought to write me into a novel.
To most of my UU friends, I am the Passionate Artist. Even to and among these universally acknowledged free thinkers, I'm seen as a step beyond. Because I'm an artist. And a black woman artist at that. Because I create music and theater and do things they say they wish they could do ("why can't you?" I ask then). Because I ask soooo many questions. Because I cry in public. Because I wear bright colors. Because...
To my son's father, I am... Well, I'm the kind of person you take on a tour of the "bohemian" part of town and then buy a bottle of wine to drink by the fountain under the stars and talk into the night. My best guess, from the way he talks about his life, is that he doesn't do that with many if any other people these days. That's what we did the first time we met (although it was beer instead of wine back then), thirty years ago; and that's what we did last Sunday when I stopped through on my way back "home" from Kansas.
We talked of things we have never spoken of before. Finally, together, approached and found courage to touch the shy elephant that has slumbered, snoring gently, in the middle of the room for three decades. Time and wine: an effective formula for unstopping the tongues of intimate strangers. It was a surprisingly deep relief to finally have things said; but more surprising still was how comfortable and easy we felt. I don't remember us ever making such true eye contact in all the years I've known him.
There's still not a question in my mind about the feasibility of partnering with him; I knew then and remain convinced that attempting to make a home with him would have been disastrous. But the son we made together was a crowning success. A gigantic silent moment swelled up within and around us Sunday night after we affirmed our love and pride in the man our child has become. I don't know what he was thinking. I was thinking, Wow! I'm sitting with the only other person in all of the universe, in all of Time, who loves Wade as much I do. And we just acknowledged it out loud, beneath a timeless night sky.
Talk about your a-ha experience....
We are each so many.
Maybe he thinks of me as Mother of My Son. I am not Piano Lady to him. He has never heard me play.
He is Father of My Son to me but higher on the list of identities is The Man Who Does Not Sing. I was dumbfounded when he told me this a few weeks after we met. Had I ever before met a person who never sings and admits it?
And, like the first (and only) family telephone number I knew by heart by age 4, I can't forget it. 944 8873. The Man Who Does Not Sing.
I slid into my southern voice (I do that these days) and we chatted for awhile about taking music lessons as a child, about the difficulty (for one of them) of finding time/making time in a grown-up life to play music, about playing in the band in junior high...starting off on trumpet, moving to cornet and later to drums.
I am the Piano Lady to these men and the rest of my neighbors. They all seem to stand up a little straighter when I walk by. They're always flawlessly polite. They nudge their kids into good behavior and respectful greetings when I pass by. They all call me "Ma'am" and "Miss Alex." The noisy neighbors lower their voices if they're being rowdy in the courtyard when I return home.
Somebody ought to write me into a novel.
To most of my UU friends, I am the Passionate Artist. Even to and among these universally acknowledged free thinkers, I'm seen as a step beyond. Because I'm an artist. And a black woman artist at that. Because I create music and theater and do things they say they wish they could do ("why can't you?" I ask then). Because I ask soooo many questions. Because I cry in public. Because I wear bright colors. Because...
To my son's father, I am... Well, I'm the kind of person you take on a tour of the "bohemian" part of town and then buy a bottle of wine to drink by the fountain under the stars and talk into the night. My best guess, from the way he talks about his life, is that he doesn't do that with many if any other people these days. That's what we did the first time we met (although it was beer instead of wine back then), thirty years ago; and that's what we did last Sunday when I stopped through on my way back "home" from Kansas.
We talked of things we have never spoken of before. Finally, together, approached and found courage to touch the shy elephant that has slumbered, snoring gently, in the middle of the room for three decades. Time and wine: an effective formula for unstopping the tongues of intimate strangers. It was a surprisingly deep relief to finally have things said; but more surprising still was how comfortable and easy we felt. I don't remember us ever making such true eye contact in all the years I've known him.
There's still not a question in my mind about the feasibility of partnering with him; I knew then and remain convinced that attempting to make a home with him would have been disastrous. But the son we made together was a crowning success. A gigantic silent moment swelled up within and around us Sunday night after we affirmed our love and pride in the man our child has become. I don't know what he was thinking. I was thinking, Wow! I'm sitting with the only other person in all of the universe, in all of Time, who loves Wade as much I do. And we just acknowledged it out loud, beneath a timeless night sky.
Talk about your a-ha experience....
We are each so many.
Maybe he thinks of me as Mother of My Son. I am not Piano Lady to him. He has never heard me play.
He is Father of My Son to me but higher on the list of identities is The Man Who Does Not Sing. I was dumbfounded when he told me this a few weeks after we met. Had I ever before met a person who never sings and admits it?
And, like the first (and only) family telephone number I knew by heart by age 4, I can't forget it. 944 8873. The Man Who Does Not Sing.
18 July 2007
Restful Ruin
Last night I dreamed I was driving a dark green hummer-type vehicle. There were two female passengers. We were a block from our destination; I had only to make one more left turn. I was making a lighthearted comment as I pulled into the turn. The vehicle leaned to the right, fell on its side and flipped.
My passengers escaped unscathed. I was trapped, face down, beneath the vehicle. The ground felt warm and welcoming under me. The weight of the vehicle on my back was a comfort. I closed my eyes and hummed, almost purred. I could hear my passengers, frantic and worried and scrambling to find help for me. I knew that eventually I would be rescued but I hoped it would not come too soon. I'd found a sweet, private resting place and was in no hurry to leave.
My passengers escaped unscathed. I was trapped, face down, beneath the vehicle. The ground felt warm and welcoming under me. The weight of the vehicle on my back was a comfort. I closed my eyes and hummed, almost purred. I could hear my passengers, frantic and worried and scrambling to find help for me. I knew that eventually I would be rescued but I hoped it would not come too soon. I'd found a sweet, private resting place and was in no hurry to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don't offer me Hope. Don't ask me to give you Hope. Hope is a distraction. Hoping exhausts me. I want to do what I do not hoping that it will make anything better but believing that it is the right thing to do.
17 July 2007
The Club
Was it a dream or NPR?
A woman's voice pronouncing an earnest, assured reminder
"Family is more important than anything."
We "know" what she means. She means blood is thicker than water.
She means You better put family first.
She means
if you don't agree you're a freak
you're to be pitied
you're un-Christian
you're in the minority
you can't be trusted.
She's in a club. A huge, pushy American conglomerate.
They believe in God and they all want to be rich.
The banner over their clubhouse door says
Family God Money
They don't unpack these terms.
They make assumptions.
Their book of rules says Family = heterosexual, two parents.
Provisional membership is extended,
albeit begrudugingly at times,
to unorthodox units and individuals:
unmarried people raising children together
single parents
units that include a variety of
races and ethnicities
Some members believe Family is threatened
by TV violence, same-sex unions, rap music and
the availability of legalized abortion.
God is understood as an elderly
omninpotent
invisible
paternal entity
Who must be obeyed without question or doubt
Despite abundant evidence of His capricious, temperamental, at times violent nature
Their confidence in God's existence is shaken when something horrible happens
Luckily, there's a reminder of their allegiance
written on every piece of money
Even non-members use this money
So God is a sure thing.
Money is too.
Money is like air or water--without it you won't live long.
I'm not in the club.
The members of this secret but pervasive society
share the world with us non-members.
Mostly, things go smoothly --
everybody believes most people belong to the club
and believe as they believe
God is on the money
We touch the Bible to prove we speak the truth
Those of us who aren't in the club
prefer that the question of membership doesn't come up
It's really better for all concerned
if the question of membership doesn't come up.
To avoid questions and conflict and hurt feelings
it's essential that the question of membership
doesn't come up.
A woman's voice pronouncing an earnest, assured reminder
"Family is more important than anything."
We "know" what she means. She means blood is thicker than water.
She means You better put family first.
She means
if you don't agree you're a freak
you're to be pitied
you're un-Christian
you're in the minority
you can't be trusted.
She's in a club. A huge, pushy American conglomerate.
They believe in God and they all want to be rich.
The banner over their clubhouse door says
Family God Money
They don't unpack these terms.
They make assumptions.
Their book of rules says Family = heterosexual, two parents.
Provisional membership is extended,
albeit begrudugingly at times,
to unorthodox units and individuals:
unmarried people raising children together
single parents
units that include a variety of
races and ethnicities
Some members believe Family is threatened
by TV violence, same-sex unions, rap music and
the availability of legalized abortion.
God is understood as an elderly
omninpotent
invisible
paternal entity
Who must be obeyed without question or doubt
Despite abundant evidence of His capricious, temperamental, at times violent nature
Their confidence in God's existence is shaken when something horrible happens
Luckily, there's a reminder of their allegiance
written on every piece of money
Even non-members use this money
So God is a sure thing.
Money is too.
Money is like air or water--without it you won't live long.
I'm not in the club.
The members of this secret but pervasive society
share the world with us non-members.
Mostly, things go smoothly --
everybody believes most people belong to the club
and believe as they believe
God is on the money
We touch the Bible to prove we speak the truth
Those of us who aren't in the club
prefer that the question of membership doesn't come up
It's really better for all concerned
if the question of membership doesn't come up.
To avoid questions and conflict and hurt feelings
it's essential that the question of membership
doesn't come up.
15 July 2007
Summer 2007: the Itinerary
Sojourning again.
First, the U.S. Social Forum in Atlanta. The six-hour drive from Gulfport was fantastic. Despite my intermittent complaining about this or that, I must admit Mississippi is beautiful country. One of the things I appreciate most is that so much of the landscape is untouched. It is still possible to drive for an hour and not see a billboard or a McDonald’s down here.
Three and a half days in Atlanta. At the Peachtree Westin Hotel. Ridiculous—and I don’t mean that as a compliment. Ridiculous excess and expansion. America at its worst, in my opinion. I struggled all week with the ethical dissonance of attending a forum called, ostensibly, to formulate a corrective to our social ills while sleeping in conspicuously over-the-top luxury.
From my room on the 43rd floor, you might expect a breathtaking view but urban sprawl doesn’t take my breath; it wrinkles my brow. By the end of my stay, I realized the wrinkle was about not feeling I was in the South. Except for all the service staff at the hotel having brown skin, I could have believed I was in Indianapolis or Chicago or LA.
News flash: something in me is falling for the South, for Southern culture. And Southern culture was not much in evidence in Atlanta that week. It was deeply satisfying to return to Gulfport. Mississippi God Damn.
Carlton flew into New Orleans on the 4th and, after retrieving him from the airport, we joined Marcie for food at one of my favorite restaurants, Byblos on Magazine. What’s better than al fresco evening dining with friends in New Orleans? Good food, good service, good company…
We went to the Westbank for fireworks. While we watched the elegant extravagance of lights over the Quarter, our companions on the floodwall were a motley assortment of families and good-natured, beer-guzzling ruffians (one of whom took a shine to me…never fails…) putting on their own show with homemade and store-bought pyrotechnics. The bang and sizzle and pop and crackle were all around us, sometimes only inches away from our heads! Fantastic! Now I ask you, what’s more certain to get me giggling than standing in high heels on the flood wall with fireworks painting the night sky over the Mississippi while a drunken stranger with dirty hair flirts with me?
The following weekend Carlton and I drove up to Holly Springs. Another beautiful Mississippi drive, this time up the Natchez Trace Trail. We picked it up at Kosciusko, Birthplace of Miss Oprah Winfrey. Deer, hawks, fox, wild turkeys…. and trees, trees, trees! Healthy and lush and protected. A light mist fell most of the way that somehow enhanced my sense of the presence of the spirits of the thousands of travelers who walked the trail “back in the day.”
The plan was to spend a night in Holly Springs with Carlton and his mother but a telephone call from a coworker, semi-stranded in Memphis set me off in that direction to pick him up and transport him back to Gulfport. It rained cats and dogs (what is the origin of that phrase?) most of the way. My heart was in my throat often, peering through the rain-shattered windshield (only one wiper working at capacity) along the unlit interstate. Russell, my passenger, said “Girl you gotta really want to come home to Mississippi.” It was true—the journey felt like an initiation.
After a few days in Gulfport, I returned to New Orleans to spend some time with Marcie, see the new Valentin-Chase baby and get in some motor scooter time before flying out to Kansas.
Today is the last day of the Kansas sojourn. I am sitting at an outdoor café table on Mass Ave (Tellers restaurant), having brunch (that’s ‘only’ served indoors but the maitre d’ made an exception for me to allow the food-coffee-cigarettes combo I desire this morning), enjoying the sweet coincidence of the house’s choice of a New Orleans jazz soundtrack.
Tomorrow I fly back to New Orleans and then, next Monday, I’m off to Boston.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡
So ends the play by play. Commentary to follow.
First, the U.S. Social Forum in Atlanta. The six-hour drive from Gulfport was fantastic. Despite my intermittent complaining about this or that, I must admit Mississippi is beautiful country. One of the things I appreciate most is that so much of the landscape is untouched. It is still possible to drive for an hour and not see a billboard or a McDonald’s down here.
Three and a half days in Atlanta. At the Peachtree Westin Hotel. Ridiculous—and I don’t mean that as a compliment. Ridiculous excess and expansion. America at its worst, in my opinion. I struggled all week with the ethical dissonance of attending a forum called, ostensibly, to formulate a corrective to our social ills while sleeping in conspicuously over-the-top luxury.
From my room on the 43rd floor, you might expect a breathtaking view but urban sprawl doesn’t take my breath; it wrinkles my brow. By the end of my stay, I realized the wrinkle was about not feeling I was in the South. Except for all the service staff at the hotel having brown skin, I could have believed I was in Indianapolis or Chicago or LA.
News flash: something in me is falling for the South, for Southern culture. And Southern culture was not much in evidence in Atlanta that week. It was deeply satisfying to return to Gulfport. Mississippi God Damn.
Carlton flew into New Orleans on the 4th and, after retrieving him from the airport, we joined Marcie for food at one of my favorite restaurants, Byblos on Magazine. What’s better than al fresco evening dining with friends in New Orleans? Good food, good service, good company…
We went to the Westbank for fireworks. While we watched the elegant extravagance of lights over the Quarter, our companions on the floodwall were a motley assortment of families and good-natured, beer-guzzling ruffians (one of whom took a shine to me…never fails…) putting on their own show with homemade and store-bought pyrotechnics. The bang and sizzle and pop and crackle were all around us, sometimes only inches away from our heads! Fantastic! Now I ask you, what’s more certain to get me giggling than standing in high heels on the flood wall with fireworks painting the night sky over the Mississippi while a drunken stranger with dirty hair flirts with me?
The following weekend Carlton and I drove up to Holly Springs. Another beautiful Mississippi drive, this time up the Natchez Trace Trail. We picked it up at Kosciusko, Birthplace of Miss Oprah Winfrey. Deer, hawks, fox, wild turkeys…. and trees, trees, trees! Healthy and lush and protected. A light mist fell most of the way that somehow enhanced my sense of the presence of the spirits of the thousands of travelers who walked the trail “back in the day.”
The plan was to spend a night in Holly Springs with Carlton and his mother but a telephone call from a coworker, semi-stranded in Memphis set me off in that direction to pick him up and transport him back to Gulfport. It rained cats and dogs (what is the origin of that phrase?) most of the way. My heart was in my throat often, peering through the rain-shattered windshield (only one wiper working at capacity) along the unlit interstate. Russell, my passenger, said “Girl you gotta really want to come home to Mississippi.” It was true—the journey felt like an initiation.
After a few days in Gulfport, I returned to New Orleans to spend some time with Marcie, see the new Valentin-Chase baby and get in some motor scooter time before flying out to Kansas.
Today is the last day of the Kansas sojourn. I am sitting at an outdoor café table on Mass Ave (Tellers restaurant), having brunch (that’s ‘only’ served indoors but the maitre d’ made an exception for me to allow the food-coffee-cigarettes combo I desire this morning), enjoying the sweet coincidence of the house’s choice of a New Orleans jazz soundtrack.
Tomorrow I fly back to New Orleans and then, next Monday, I’m off to Boston.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡
So ends the play by play. Commentary to follow.
13 July 2007
The Lost Ones
We do not realize our power.
We do not realize the power of the small gesture.
We say "If only" and point to some entity or force or situation instead of saying "I can" and setting ourselves to Our Work.
We are blind to ourselves. We do not see the myriad reflections of ourselves and our actions all around us.
We see so clearly--or believe we do--the shape and movement of others. We believe we understand, believe our interpretations are perfect...but we don't understand and our interpretations are necessarily flawed.
Oh, to be like water, like trees, like sunlight.
We do not realize the power of the small gesture.
We say "If only" and point to some entity or force or situation instead of saying "I can" and setting ourselves to Our Work.
We are blind to ourselves. We do not see the myriad reflections of ourselves and our actions all around us.
We see so clearly--or believe we do--the shape and movement of others. We believe we understand, believe our interpretations are perfect...but we don't understand and our interpretations are necessarily flawed.
Oh, to be like water, like trees, like sunlight.
A Question
What do the Buddha, Jesus the Christ, the Dalai Lama, Rumi, Lao Tzu, Deepak Chopra, Pema Chodron....say about "quarrelling"?
09 July 2007
A Dream
Last night I dreamed I returned to high school. There were only two members in each section of the orchestra but they still rehearsed in a large room and placed their chairs in First and Second seats, on the same spot on the floor as if they were in a full orchestra.
Pat Thompson cut my hair into a great new look. She was taller and slimmer and more confident than I remember her from waking-life high school. I suspected it was a hairdo I couldn't maintain.
I kept trying to have conversations with one of my teachers before or after class but each time I tried, a small group of students joined us and interrupted by talking really fast and loud right into the teacher's face. I finally grabbed the biggest girl's face and said "Would you...." but she mistook the shape of my lips for a pucker and began to kiss me. I held her in my arms and kissed her because it reduced the interference--but I knew I couldn't hold and kiss 3 students at a time.
One young teacher had been complaining to other teachers (but not saying anything to me). School policy required him to stay in the building after hours as long as a single student remained in the building; I had been staying late, trying to have the previously mentioned conversation, for several days so he'd been keeping later hours at school than he wanted. I'd had no idea I was inconveniencing anyone. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: I slept without AC in LA last night. Apparently hot nights make for memorable dreaming. Like fever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
07 July 2007
Poor Pig and Mississippi Heat
Oh yeah
Summer has come to Mississippi.
Despite my most courageous intentions, I've closed the windows and turned on the AC. Two sweaty, sleepless nights was enough to break my resolve, but it's an incomplete surrender. Days I'm home, I walk to the window several times a day to take readings: if there seems to be a breeze in the branches of trees across the yard, if there's substantial cloud coverage, if it starts to rain... I turn off the "air."
Last year, living in New Orleans, it was a matter of pride. How could I claim to love New Orleans and then cower in air-conditioned rooms when she became her summertime self? Sweltering was proof of my love and the price required to call NOLA home.
This year, living in Gulfport, it's mostly a money issue. There's a great big utility bill on its way to me...I'm the little pig trembling behind the door of the straw house (albeit, an air-conditioned house) as the big bad wolf approaches.
Why is No Money always easier than Little Money?
Summer has come to Mississippi.
Despite my most courageous intentions, I've closed the windows and turned on the AC. Two sweaty, sleepless nights was enough to break my resolve, but it's an incomplete surrender. Days I'm home, I walk to the window several times a day to take readings: if there seems to be a breeze in the branches of trees across the yard, if there's substantial cloud coverage, if it starts to rain... I turn off the "air."
Last year, living in New Orleans, it was a matter of pride. How could I claim to love New Orleans and then cower in air-conditioned rooms when she became her summertime self? Sweltering was proof of my love and the price required to call NOLA home.
This year, living in Gulfport, it's mostly a money issue. There's a great big utility bill on its way to me...I'm the little pig trembling behind the door of the straw house (albeit, an air-conditioned house) as the big bad wolf approaches.
Why is No Money always easier than Little Money?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night I dreamed a group of friends made a gift of three tiny newborn animals. They were so new it was impossible to tell exactly what they were.
I looked at them and began spinning pretty stories in my head about the days of tenderness ahead.
The creatures began to uncurl from their fetal balls. They first turned into adorable big-eyed, furry, winged little things; but within seconds they morphed into drooling, pooping, noisy, cross-eyed horrors. I didn't want them any more but I tried to care for them, for a few days, for lack of a plan to get rid of them.
I woke from the dream feeling creepy--anxious and dissatisfied. I hadn't turned on the AC, thinking the night might be cool enough to sleep without it. The room was over-warm. I'd kicked the bedclothes into an angry knot in my sleep. I woke with my last words from the dream still echoing in my head-- "Oh shit! Now what do I do?"
I looked at them and began spinning pretty stories in my head about the days of tenderness ahead.
The creatures began to uncurl from their fetal balls. They first turned into adorable big-eyed, furry, winged little things; but within seconds they morphed into drooling, pooping, noisy, cross-eyed horrors. I didn't want them any more but I tried to care for them, for a few days, for lack of a plan to get rid of them.
I woke from the dream feeling creepy--anxious and dissatisfied. I hadn't turned on the AC, thinking the night might be cool enough to sleep without it. The room was over-warm. I'd kicked the bedclothes into an angry knot in my sleep. I woke with my last words from the dream still echoing in my head-- "Oh shit! Now what do I do?"
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