When I was little, we had a record (you know, an LP, one of those vinyl spinning things that people in general don't listen to any more and that young people know nothing about) of Mother Goose rhymes set to music. I believe one of the main narrators was Sterlign Holloway, but that has nothing to do with anything. The other day, my little sister decided she wanted to listen to some old records, so as I was going through the stack of music, I came across that particular album and decided it might be funny to listen to. So, I put it on. My sister liked it anyway.
Now, if I had my way, we'd scrap all of these CDs and MP3s and every other music-listening media and go back exclusively to vinyl LPs and 45s. There's something about the sound quality, with all of the tiny scratches and bumps that makes it so much more...more...I don't know, real, I guess. However, once we began to listen to that Mother Goose album with its opening theme ("More Mother Goose, More Mother Goose" da da-da da-da da-da da "More Mother Goose") and all of those scratches, big and small, the album quickly became monstrous damnable and wicked irritating.
But it made me wonder, why on earth my siblings and I ever listened to it in the first place. Not to mention, why would any parent, regardless of race, gender, denomination, or ethnicity, would allow children to be exposed to Mother Goose's ear-clawing and often grotesque nursery rhymes.
In fact, I have here beside me a book of nursery rhymes from Mother Goose's archives. Let's look at a few, shall we?
Oh, here's a great one called "The Three Sons":
There was an old woman had three sons,
Jerry and James and John,
Jerry was hanged, James was drowned,
John was lost and never was found;
And there was an end of her three sons,
Jerry and James and John!
That's PG-13 at least, and these are supposed to be nursery rhymes! Oh, I've found another:
"Virginia had a baby,
His name was Tiny Tim,
She put him in the bathtub
to teach him how to swim.
He drank up all the water,
He ate up all the soap,
And he died last night with a bubble in his throat."
Sweet dreams, little baby.
Away Birds Away!
"Away, birds, away!
take a little and leave a little,
And do not come again;
For if you do,
I will shoot you through,
And there will be an end of you."
Dear me, no wonder children are becoming violent. Between Mother Goose and Ritalin shortages, the world is going to be a very unsafe place.
Bandy Legs
"As I was going to sell my eggs
I met a man with bandy legs,
Bandy legs and crooked toes;
I tripped up his heels, and he fell on his nose."
Yes, and since we want our children to be encouraged in this sort of behavior, let's sing it in a round, as well. I'll start it off.
Goosey, Goosey, Gander
"Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither dost thou wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg,
And threw him down the stairs."
Got to love religious intolerance. Children, make a note of that: if Gramps won't pray, you know what to do with him. Bad hip and all.
Then of course there are some that aren't exactly bad, but they are still completely devoid of any useful information.
Little Jumping Joan
"Here I stand, little Jumping Joan,
When nobody's with me,
I'm always alone."
Duh.
Or how about this one:
The Old Woman under a Hill
"The was an old woman
Lived under a hill;
If she's not gone,
She lives there still."
Gee, thanks, Mother Goose, I'm pretty certain I never would've figured that one out on my own. What are you, German?
I hope you've got the point. If you haven't, there's a lot more where these came from.
Sadly.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Making Goals
No, I'm not talking about soccer. Actually, I'm not even talking about the importance of goal-setting. The truth is, goals aren't always everything you expected them to be. Sometimes, the achievement of a goal brings a feeling of euphoria. Sometimes, it's just a drag.
For example, I recently purchased a new computer. To break it in, I immediate began to play Freecell on it. As win led to win, I decided I wanted to see if I could win a hundred games in a row.
I did. Every time I needed a break from writing my newest novel, I opened up Freecell and proceeded to rattle off a couple victories or so.
I am now at 132 straight Freecell victories on my new laptop and the feeling of euphoria at having accomplished so much in so little time has yet to arrive.
In fact, it sort of reminds me of my sophomore year when I was introduced to the video game Twilight Princess. I cannot tell you how much time I wasted playing that game, particularly in that one cave with the hundred levels. But I put my head down and I made it through that d--- game at last. Guess what? I didn't celebrate. I didn't feel like I'd changed the world for the better. I felt like crap actually. To tell the truth, I threw down that controller and said, "Thank goodness that's over. Now I can get some work done."
The point is, it's one thing to set and achieve goals, but it's another to set and achieve goals that actually mean something, that will actually affect your life in some positive way.
So, when you get into that mode (goal-setting mode generally only happens once or twice for most people, if that), start by writing all of your goals down on a piece of paper. Then take a red pen and cross out all of the ones that are borderline weak or potential unsatisfactory. The idea of a worthy goal is to create within the individual a sense of real accomplishment, and your job, before you even start, is to figure which of your ideas does not contain that possibility.
Hint: Button-mashing does not count as a goal, so don't think you can follow in my footsteps and have a different result than I did. It won't happen. The only thing you will gain by it is realizing once and for all that you are, in fact, a crazy person.
For example, I recently purchased a new computer. To break it in, I immediate began to play Freecell on it. As win led to win, I decided I wanted to see if I could win a hundred games in a row.
I did. Every time I needed a break from writing my newest novel, I opened up Freecell and proceeded to rattle off a couple victories or so.
I am now at 132 straight Freecell victories on my new laptop and the feeling of euphoria at having accomplished so much in so little time has yet to arrive.
In fact, it sort of reminds me of my sophomore year when I was introduced to the video game Twilight Princess. I cannot tell you how much time I wasted playing that game, particularly in that one cave with the hundred levels. But I put my head down and I made it through that d--- game at last. Guess what? I didn't celebrate. I didn't feel like I'd changed the world for the better. I felt like crap actually. To tell the truth, I threw down that controller and said, "Thank goodness that's over. Now I can get some work done."
The point is, it's one thing to set and achieve goals, but it's another to set and achieve goals that actually mean something, that will actually affect your life in some positive way.
So, when you get into that mode (goal-setting mode generally only happens once or twice for most people, if that), start by writing all of your goals down on a piece of paper. Then take a red pen and cross out all of the ones that are borderline weak or potential unsatisfactory. The idea of a worthy goal is to create within the individual a sense of real accomplishment, and your job, before you even start, is to figure which of your ideas does not contain that possibility.
Hint: Button-mashing does not count as a goal, so don't think you can follow in my footsteps and have a different result than I did. It won't happen. The only thing you will gain by it is realizing once and for all that you are, in fact, a crazy person.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
I'm Back (not a Dinosaur Story)
Yes, my sabbatical is through, and, no, it's not because I have let a woman in my life who wants to redecorate my home from the cellar to the dome or go to the enthralling fun of overhauling me (see film My Fair Lady). No, actually I am speaking of the last, oh, what's it been, five and a half weeks of failing to write on what was once my daily-turned-semi-weekly-turned-completely-ignored-writing blog?
Well, at lot has happened in this time, and, to tell the truth, the break has been quite good for me. I feel invigorated and refreshed and ready to begin anew relating true stories and false, which is to say tweaked or ameliorated or embellished in some way if needs be.
During this period of rest, I have been busy with a whole lot of things, many of which--I am glad to say--have been productive and enlivening. For example, I have been down to Nevada and Arizona, saw a fabulous production of Phantom of the Opera, attended three major league baseball games, accepted an offer to work as a graduate instructor in the fall, registered for classes, got sick, substituted for elementary and middle school classes, worked on two proofreading jobs, and began my third novel. The odd thing is that, though I accomplished a great many things, everything from my bucket list remains undone.
At first glance, you might be asking yourself how I managed to do all of those things and still say I am invigorated and refreshed. Well, the point of all of that is that I have been busy doing things which are not blog writing. My sabbatical was really from blog writing and nothing else. Now that is ended, and I am ready to return and take care of this.
Of course, I understand that many of my old readers have probably come to the conclusion that I have either quit for good or I am dead, one of the two. Perhaps they think that I have quit for good because I am dead. Well, I am no ghost writer, so don't bother thinking otherwise.
Now, I know you've missed me terribly, and you're probably wanting some funny anecdote from my previous week to lighten up your day, but the truth of the matter is, my week has been a little bit melancholy, considering I've been ill since last Thursday. However, I think I might be able to come up with something.
Ah, yes. I have it.
Two weeks ago from tomorrow, a member of the bishopric came up to me, just before I began teaching my Primary class and asked if I would be willing to speak in church the following Sunday. I agreed, of course, because I had no real reason to refuse and he didn't give me one. He did give me a topic however, which was missionary work. He tried to narrow it down for me by specifiying that I ought to speak about things to do while preparing for a mission, things to do while on a mission, and things to do after the missionary comes home (Note: It wasn't until later that I realized that he hadn't actually narrowed it down at all. Not much anyway.). So, I accepted the invite to speak, and he said I would be the final speaker in the meeting and I would only need to speak for ten minutes.
Ha.
Ha ha.
Ha ha ha.
Not.
The next Sunday, I showed up at church, fashionably late, (five minutes or so) right in the middle of the opening hymn. I glanced up at the front and realized that there was not a soul up there except a young woman (she's about thirteen, so I figured she must be a youth speaker), and two members of the bishopric. Of course, being confused by the lack of bodies on the stand, I grabbed a program to make sure that I was in the right place and that I would still be expected to deliver my ten-minute discourse on missionary work.
"Speaker: Brother Jeff Howard," it said. I was in the right place.
But someone else wasn't. The speaker who was supposed to come before me had not shown up at all. As a result, I was now expected to fill up thirty minutes of time instead of ten.
Ha.
Ha ha.
Ha ha ha.
Not.
So, when it came time for the speakers to, you know, speak, the young woman who came before me stood up and gave her four-minute discourse on something (about 90 seconds lopnger than I expected so I was grateful that she took a little extra time). I can't remember exactly what she spoke on because I was suddenly flipping through my scriptures trying to add a few minutes of material to my own talk.
After her talk, there was a musical number by a group of 12-year-old girls which lasted, oh, not quite long enough, and then, dun dun dun, it was my turn.
I stood up.
I started talking.
Eek. My voice sounded awful.
Most people, if they happen to be sick when they speak in church, will immediately apologize for sounding the way they do. However, I don't believe in apologizing at the beginning of a talk of any sort. It's bad form. So instead of apologizing, I talked about people who apologize at the beginning of their talks.
I said, "You know, lots of people in my situation will apologize for the way their voice sounds and after begging the pardon of the audience will entreat the members of the congregation to bear with them. I won't apologize though. Why should I apologize for this when it isn't even my fault that I sound this way and I couldn't do anything about it if I wanted to?"
I continued, "And as far as bearing with me, I'm not going to ask you to bear with me because, really, you have no choice but to bear with me anyway. I'm going to speak and you're going to listen and that's all any of us is going to do."
By then I was kind of on a roll and out of control. The words were coming to mind and out of my mouth. I went on to say that I was not expecting to speak for this amount of time and I did not intend to because I don't like long-winded speakers and neither does anyone else.
I then mentioned that if I put my mind to it, I probably could come close to filling the time; after all, there are plenty of tried-and-true (cliche) stalling tactics that have been developed at our podiums over the years. For example, I could simply start thanking people who had some sort of job during the meeting. You know, all of the people who are mentioned on the program. I could thank the music people for doing such a great job with the music and bring a great spirit into the meeting. I could thank the bishop for being a wonderful person and doing such a good job presiding at the meeting even though presiding just means sitting down and not doing anything. At that point though, the thanking thing just gets ridiculous, so you have to stop.
After a couple of minutes of being a ham, I began to speak on the actual topic. On missionary work. On conversion. On obedience. On the Atonement. A short while later, an amazing thing happened.
I bore my testimony and looked at the clock. There were only five minutes remaining, and only one person in the audience was asleep (Note: He had actually fallen asleep before I started speaking, so it wasn't my fault exactly. I just do anything sudden enough to wake him up.).
One woman in the audience approached me after church and told me that she appreciated my talk, not only for her sake but also for the fact that her inactive ex-husband (who had not been to church for a long time) had been in the congregation and had heard my talk. She said, "A lot of what you said hit home, and I'm hoping it's a coming-to-Jesus day for him."
Now, there a few things in the world as nice as the feeling of finishing a public discourse, but this is one of them: knowing that what you said, whether or not it was what you planned to say in the first place, affected someone in a positive way. This principle has nothing to do with religion; it's about saying the things that will help others to improve their lives in some way. It doesn't take a lot; in fact, you don't have to speak publicly in order to have an effect. Sometimes, you don't even have to speak at all. Sometimes, it's what you refuse to say (yes, I'm talking about swearing and gossip and slander here, among other things) that helps people most. It can even be an action or an attitude that will show the light to the people who sit alone in the shadowy corner.
Well, at lot has happened in this time, and, to tell the truth, the break has been quite good for me. I feel invigorated and refreshed and ready to begin anew relating true stories and false, which is to say tweaked or ameliorated or embellished in some way if needs be.
During this period of rest, I have been busy with a whole lot of things, many of which--I am glad to say--have been productive and enlivening. For example, I have been down to Nevada and Arizona, saw a fabulous production of Phantom of the Opera, attended three major league baseball games, accepted an offer to work as a graduate instructor in the fall, registered for classes, got sick, substituted for elementary and middle school classes, worked on two proofreading jobs, and began my third novel. The odd thing is that, though I accomplished a great many things, everything from my bucket list remains undone.
At first glance, you might be asking yourself how I managed to do all of those things and still say I am invigorated and refreshed. Well, the point of all of that is that I have been busy doing things which are not blog writing. My sabbatical was really from blog writing and nothing else. Now that is ended, and I am ready to return and take care of this.
Of course, I understand that many of my old readers have probably come to the conclusion that I have either quit for good or I am dead, one of the two. Perhaps they think that I have quit for good because I am dead. Well, I am no ghost writer, so don't bother thinking otherwise.
Now, I know you've missed me terribly, and you're probably wanting some funny anecdote from my previous week to lighten up your day, but the truth of the matter is, my week has been a little bit melancholy, considering I've been ill since last Thursday. However, I think I might be able to come up with something.
Ah, yes. I have it.
Two weeks ago from tomorrow, a member of the bishopric came up to me, just before I began teaching my Primary class and asked if I would be willing to speak in church the following Sunday. I agreed, of course, because I had no real reason to refuse and he didn't give me one. He did give me a topic however, which was missionary work. He tried to narrow it down for me by specifiying that I ought to speak about things to do while preparing for a mission, things to do while on a mission, and things to do after the missionary comes home (Note: It wasn't until later that I realized that he hadn't actually narrowed it down at all. Not much anyway.). So, I accepted the invite to speak, and he said I would be the final speaker in the meeting and I would only need to speak for ten minutes.
Ha.
Ha ha.
Ha ha ha.
Not.
The next Sunday, I showed up at church, fashionably late, (five minutes or so) right in the middle of the opening hymn. I glanced up at the front and realized that there was not a soul up there except a young woman (she's about thirteen, so I figured she must be a youth speaker), and two members of the bishopric. Of course, being confused by the lack of bodies on the stand, I grabbed a program to make sure that I was in the right place and that I would still be expected to deliver my ten-minute discourse on missionary work.
"Speaker: Brother Jeff Howard," it said. I was in the right place.
But someone else wasn't. The speaker who was supposed to come before me had not shown up at all. As a result, I was now expected to fill up thirty minutes of time instead of ten.
Ha.
Ha ha.
Ha ha ha.
Not.
So, when it came time for the speakers to, you know, speak, the young woman who came before me stood up and gave her four-minute discourse on something (about 90 seconds lopnger than I expected so I was grateful that she took a little extra time). I can't remember exactly what she spoke on because I was suddenly flipping through my scriptures trying to add a few minutes of material to my own talk.
After her talk, there was a musical number by a group of 12-year-old girls which lasted, oh, not quite long enough, and then, dun dun dun, it was my turn.
I stood up.
I started talking.
Eek. My voice sounded awful.
Most people, if they happen to be sick when they speak in church, will immediately apologize for sounding the way they do. However, I don't believe in apologizing at the beginning of a talk of any sort. It's bad form. So instead of apologizing, I talked about people who apologize at the beginning of their talks.
I said, "You know, lots of people in my situation will apologize for the way their voice sounds and after begging the pardon of the audience will entreat the members of the congregation to bear with them. I won't apologize though. Why should I apologize for this when it isn't even my fault that I sound this way and I couldn't do anything about it if I wanted to?"
I continued, "And as far as bearing with me, I'm not going to ask you to bear with me because, really, you have no choice but to bear with me anyway. I'm going to speak and you're going to listen and that's all any of us is going to do."
By then I was kind of on a roll and out of control. The words were coming to mind and out of my mouth. I went on to say that I was not expecting to speak for this amount of time and I did not intend to because I don't like long-winded speakers and neither does anyone else.
I then mentioned that if I put my mind to it, I probably could come close to filling the time; after all, there are plenty of tried-and-true (cliche) stalling tactics that have been developed at our podiums over the years. For example, I could simply start thanking people who had some sort of job during the meeting. You know, all of the people who are mentioned on the program. I could thank the music people for doing such a great job with the music and bring a great spirit into the meeting. I could thank the bishop for being a wonderful person and doing such a good job presiding at the meeting even though presiding just means sitting down and not doing anything. At that point though, the thanking thing just gets ridiculous, so you have to stop.
After a couple of minutes of being a ham, I began to speak on the actual topic. On missionary work. On conversion. On obedience. On the Atonement. A short while later, an amazing thing happened.
I bore my testimony and looked at the clock. There were only five minutes remaining, and only one person in the audience was asleep (Note: He had actually fallen asleep before I started speaking, so it wasn't my fault exactly. I just do anything sudden enough to wake him up.).
One woman in the audience approached me after church and told me that she appreciated my talk, not only for her sake but also for the fact that her inactive ex-husband (who had not been to church for a long time) had been in the congregation and had heard my talk. She said, "A lot of what you said hit home, and I'm hoping it's a coming-to-Jesus day for him."
Now, there a few things in the world as nice as the feeling of finishing a public discourse, but this is one of them: knowing that what you said, whether or not it was what you planned to say in the first place, affected someone in a positive way. This principle has nothing to do with religion; it's about saying the things that will help others to improve their lives in some way. It doesn't take a lot; in fact, you don't have to speak publicly in order to have an effect. Sometimes, you don't even have to speak at all. Sometimes, it's what you refuse to say (yes, I'm talking about swearing and gossip and slander here, among other things) that helps people most. It can even be an action or an attitude that will show the light to the people who sit alone in the shadowy corner.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Beating the Older Brother
Anyone, perhaps, who has ever known what it's like to be a younger brother has, indubitably, felt at one time or another the psychological barrier which often prevents us from scaling the mountainous examples set in place by those within whose shadow we seemed destined to inhabit in perpetuo. At certain junctures (no, that's the wrong word), at extended periods of time, I have experienced the sting of trying to measure up to the achievements and physical prowess and skill, particularly in the field of sports, which my brother has demonstrated, and my cup has, at sundry times, run over with coming short of measuring up.
However, despite this often psychological and sometimes physical obstacle, I am pleased to report that such things need not always remain in place. Just today, I beat my older brother in a game of ping pong (21-17), as well as in two games of pool. He destroyed me in basketball, but I do not wish to address that, as it nothing new or extraordinary or unexpected. Ping pong on the other hand was completely unexpected, most of all by me. It is a dream come true; I have triumphed at last.
That being said, this intrafamilial comparative procedure, though common I'm sure, is actually an example of pure excrement. Unfortunately, the rarity of such victories has ensured that I would not fully understand this point until now. We excel in different thing; we are interested in different things. We are different people. No matter how much we wish to be weighed in an even balance, it will turn out better if we realize sooner rather than later that we all need a different set of scales.
So I have pursued this course, namely desiring to beat my brother in sports, only to realize that I have been a fool.
However, despite this often psychological and sometimes physical obstacle, I am pleased to report that such things need not always remain in place. Just today, I beat my older brother in a game of ping pong (21-17), as well as in two games of pool. He destroyed me in basketball, but I do not wish to address that, as it nothing new or extraordinary or unexpected. Ping pong on the other hand was completely unexpected, most of all by me. It is a dream come true; I have triumphed at last.
That being said, this intrafamilial comparative procedure, though common I'm sure, is actually an example of pure excrement. Unfortunately, the rarity of such victories has ensured that I would not fully understand this point until now. We excel in different thing; we are interested in different things. We are different people. No matter how much we wish to be weighed in an even balance, it will turn out better if we realize sooner rather than later that we all need a different set of scales.
So I have pursued this course, namely desiring to beat my brother in sports, only to realize that I have been a fool.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Attacked
I was attacked today. I was minding my own business, trying to do some research, when out of the blue...
BOOM!
A message popped up on my screen, informing me that my computer was being infected by all sorts of nasty viruses and malware. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, and I'm not sure why my Internet security was taking a holiday just then; all I know is, I am writing this blog on someone else's computer because mine is being flushed and cleaned and thoroughly disinfected at the computer guy's place.
Tiny silver lining: my computer was needing a checkup anyway, and at the rate I was getting around to it taking to someone to have it cleaned out and have my DVD drive fixed, I was never going to get around to it. Almost three years is a long time to own a thing without having any maintenance on it.
Big black cumulonimbus cloud full of lightning an' thunder an' golfball-sized hail an' stuff: I could have lost everything on my computer to those nasty digital creepy-crawlies. I do have backups of things on CDs, so that's a mercy, but I could have had personal information stolen as well. I mean, I don't think I keep anything very personal on my computer, but you never know....
The funny thing is this: my sister-in-law told me the other day, when I baby-sat her children, that she had not ever been away from them for that amount of time. I now know, to a small extent, how she must have felt. Until now, I have not, since becoming the proud proprietor of my HP laptop computer (I'm not exactly certain why I was proud of owning an HP laptop, but I think it's because I was naive at the time regarding the perceived quality of the d--- piece of technological poo with which I was purchasing), ever been separated from it like this. Not that I'm on it all the time, you understand, (though I am on it a lot) but it's always been there when I needed it. Now, I need it, I want it, and I can't have it because some practically joking sphincter decided to relieve himself on my dual-core processor and already overworker hard drive. You know, I keep going to my room to do work on my computer, only to rediscover that it isn't ther, and that it isn't even in my house. It's an odd feeling, this involuntary absence, sort of like sitting down to a chair you know was behind you the last time you looked and finding, once you've fallen on your buttocks, that someone thought that it would be funny to pull it away at the last second. Only it isn't funny at all, and the chair thief not only won't give your seat back, but he put his fist through it and, until you've paid him to re-upholster it, he won't give it back.
Wait a minute. Did I say it was the funny thing? I meant the annoying-as-a-blowfly-stuck-up-your-left-nostril-that-won't-come-out sort of thing.
Ultimately, "so it goes" (though more in the Billy Joel sense rather than in the Kurt Vonnegut sense, but neither is really accurate) and c'est la vie, etc.--and of course I'm taking solace from the fact that it's raining on those who deserve the unwanted precipitation as well as on me--but this whole nefarious--not hilarious--situation is still irritating enough that even Tiny Tim might forego his usual charity and cheerfulness, raise his glass of warm milk in his right hand while brandishing his crutch like a weapon with the left, and raspily cry, "D--- those chair thieves, every one."
BOOM!
A message popped up on my screen, informing me that my computer was being infected by all sorts of nasty viruses and malware. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, and I'm not sure why my Internet security was taking a holiday just then; all I know is, I am writing this blog on someone else's computer because mine is being flushed and cleaned and thoroughly disinfected at the computer guy's place.
Tiny silver lining: my computer was needing a checkup anyway, and at the rate I was getting around to it taking to someone to have it cleaned out and have my DVD drive fixed, I was never going to get around to it. Almost three years is a long time to own a thing without having any maintenance on it.
Big black cumulonimbus cloud full of lightning an' thunder an' golfball-sized hail an' stuff: I could have lost everything on my computer to those nasty digital creepy-crawlies. I do have backups of things on CDs, so that's a mercy, but I could have had personal information stolen as well. I mean, I don't think I keep anything very personal on my computer, but you never know....
The funny thing is this: my sister-in-law told me the other day, when I baby-sat her children, that she had not ever been away from them for that amount of time. I now know, to a small extent, how she must have felt. Until now, I have not, since becoming the proud proprietor of my HP laptop computer (I'm not exactly certain why I was proud of owning an HP laptop, but I think it's because I was naive at the time regarding the perceived quality of the d--- piece of technological poo with which I was purchasing), ever been separated from it like this. Not that I'm on it all the time, you understand, (though I am on it a lot) but it's always been there when I needed it. Now, I need it, I want it, and I can't have it because some practically joking sphincter decided to relieve himself on my dual-core processor and already overworker hard drive. You know, I keep going to my room to do work on my computer, only to rediscover that it isn't ther, and that it isn't even in my house. It's an odd feeling, this involuntary absence, sort of like sitting down to a chair you know was behind you the last time you looked and finding, once you've fallen on your buttocks, that someone thought that it would be funny to pull it away at the last second. Only it isn't funny at all, and the chair thief not only won't give your seat back, but he put his fist through it and, until you've paid him to re-upholster it, he won't give it back.
Wait a minute. Did I say it was the funny thing? I meant the annoying-as-a-blowfly-stuck-up-your-left-nostril-that-won't-come-out sort of thing.
Ultimately, "so it goes" (though more in the Billy Joel sense rather than in the Kurt Vonnegut sense, but neither is really accurate) and c'est la vie, etc.--and of course I'm taking solace from the fact that it's raining on those who deserve the unwanted precipitation as well as on me--but this whole nefarious--not hilarious--situation is still irritating enough that even Tiny Tim might forego his usual charity and cheerfulness, raise his glass of warm milk in his right hand while brandishing his crutch like a weapon with the left, and raspily cry, "D--- those chair thieves, every one."
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
To E.E. and Gertrude
?
Am I right
to believe
believe that
by means of my fingers
fingers and mind
mind within lines
means that I
must ignore invention
?
If
I
have
drift
for
you
to get,
surely
the letters
are allowed to drift themselves if
they
want to be gotten?
Direction defines meaninglessness
Ergo
I confess nothing
p and d
The Chinese write u o
w
n
and however they please
If they feel
the need to do so.
They have nothing
to lose
by going
somewhere besides forward
with perplexed simplicity;
And they haven't punctuation
either.
as far as I know anyway(
or do they)
They have enough
Enough
meaning without adding
and subtracting
(meaningless)
more!
Each line line each connects
connects lines
lines within lines
lines outside of time
time and space
and dimensional confines
which are not mine
but his
And timely finely sketches
etches
traces faces
faces facing
sand and dune and hill and real
which do not do
(do not do which)
water works better
better for writing writing
and chiseling the infinite
or infinitely finite
without disturbing
or perturbing
the finite Infinite&
No one can tell
)should they?(
And I won't
won't bring myself
to explain
Not yet yet not
I thought not
I thought I brought
my unwanted thoughts
My my
what is it
I have said
You tell me
Me tell you
It's the same
If it's the same
If only only if
If you only heard me
heard me writing
What it means means
Meaning what:
the lines finely twined
within time
Time within twine finds mine
not yours;
I cannot say;
(not today)
or tomorrow even
even in evening
but the next day
day after that
that after day
that day is almost certain,
the day
I keep my secret
keep keep
to myself
And you will find out
sooner than I
or as soon as I
what we never knew
or hoped?
[Note: In case you are wondering what just happened, don't ask me. However, feel free to look up the poetic works of E. E. Cummings or Gertrude Stein's "A Completed Portrait of Picasso" for examples of whatever this is that I have written above]
Am I right
to believe
believe that
by means of my fingers
fingers and mind
mind within lines
means that I
must ignore invention
?
If
I
have
drift
for
you
to get,
surely
the letters
are allowed to drift themselves if
they
want to be gotten?
Direction defines meaninglessness
Ergo
I confess nothing
p and d
The Chinese write u o
w
n
and however they please
If they feel
the need to do so.
They have nothing
to lose
by going
somewhere besides forward
with perplexed simplicity;
And they haven't punctuation
either.
as far as I know anyway(
or do they)
They have enough
Enough
meaning without adding
and subtracting
(meaningless)
more!
Each line line each connects
connects lines
lines within lines
lines outside of time
time and space
and dimensional confines
which are not mine
but his
And timely finely sketches
etches
traces faces
faces facing
sand and dune and hill and real
which do not do
(do not do which)
water works better
better for writing writing
and chiseling the infinite
or infinitely finite
without disturbing
or perturbing
the finite Infinite&
No one can tell
)should they?(
And I won't
won't bring myself
to explain
Not yet yet not
I thought not
I thought I brought
my unwanted thoughts
My my
what is it
I have said
You tell me
Me tell you
It's the same
If it's the same
If only only if
If you only heard me
heard me writing
What it means means
Meaning what:
the lines finely twined
within time
Time within twine finds mine
not yours;
I cannot say;
(not today)
or tomorrow even
even in evening
but the next day
day after that
that after day
that day is almost certain,
the day
I keep my secret
keep keep
to myself
And you will find out
sooner than I
or as soon as I
what we never knew
or hoped?
[Note: In case you are wondering what just happened, don't ask me. However, feel free to look up the poetic works of E. E. Cummings or Gertrude Stein's "A Completed Portrait of Picasso" for examples of whatever this is that I have written above]
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Pasta Carbonara
"The time has come my little friends to talk of food and things" (from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass). Today I have a tasty dish for you that I made only yesterday. I was in a bind because 6:00 p.m. came around and no one had yet made dinner. Not because we're slackers, you see, but actually more because my sister had been throwing up the day before and my mother, feeling the groaning and lurching and churnings of sympathy, had no inclination to eat. Therefore, I, noticing the time, took it upon myself to make something delicious that would only take a little while to prepare. Upon finding a half-consumed package of bacon in the meat drawer in the refrigerator and the leftover bits of ham (from Sunday dinner) in a tupperware on the second shelf, I suddenly sensed a delightful little blip on my revelatory radar: Pasta Carbonara.
Now, I had not made the dish for more than five years (not since I came back from Italy in 2006), so it was a little odd that out of nowhere I thought to make it. However, make it I did, ed fu veramente una meraviglia straordinaria come un sogno fantastico che ricevi senza dormire, cogli occhi aperti e la bocca spalancata. By the way, I just made that one up. Right off the cuff.
Anyway, here's the recipe:
Pasta Carbonara
Four slices of bacon, cut into small pieces
1 cup of cooked ham
2 Tbsp. butter
1/4 medium-sized onion
4 eggs
3 Tbsp. milk
1 lb. linguine pasta
5 oz. parmesan or pecorino Romano, grated
Basil, salt, pepper, thyme, garlic to taste
Fry the bacon in a saucepan with the butter and onion. Boil the pasta according to the directions on the box. Whisk the eggs and milk together in a bowl. When the pasta is done, drain off the water, then quickly add the egg mixture to the pasta and stir. The heat from the pasta will cook the eggs in about a minute or so. Then add spices, bacon, ham, and cheese. Serves four people (Note: I found that out because Mom decided she was hungry after all, and Maren had had just about enough of crackers and 7UP). Buon appetito!
Now, I had not made the dish for more than five years (not since I came back from Italy in 2006), so it was a little odd that out of nowhere I thought to make it. However, make it I did, ed fu veramente una meraviglia straordinaria come un sogno fantastico che ricevi senza dormire, cogli occhi aperti e la bocca spalancata. By the way, I just made that one up. Right off the cuff.
Anyway, here's the recipe:
Pasta Carbonara
Four slices of bacon, cut into small pieces
1 cup of cooked ham
2 Tbsp. butter
1/4 medium-sized onion
4 eggs
3 Tbsp. milk
1 lb. linguine pasta
5 oz. parmesan or pecorino Romano, grated
Basil, salt, pepper, thyme, garlic to taste
Fry the bacon in a saucepan with the butter and onion. Boil the pasta according to the directions on the box. Whisk the eggs and milk together in a bowl. When the pasta is done, drain off the water, then quickly add the egg mixture to the pasta and stir. The heat from the pasta will cook the eggs in about a minute or so. Then add spices, bacon, ham, and cheese. Serves four people (Note: I found that out because Mom decided she was hungry after all, and Maren had had just about enough of crackers and 7UP). Buon appetito!
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