Many years ago, I was sitting in a training. Because we were doing hands-on computer work, I had a computer to myself and I had my e-mail up as well as the program we were working with. That means I was sneaking around, doing personal e-mail while I was supposed to be working.
In the middle of the morning, I got an email from someone with my last name, but a first name I didn't recognize. He said, "Your name makes me think you are a nice Norwegian lady." I wrote back, "Well, I'm not sure that I'm nice or a lady, but I am 2nd generation Norwegian American." That did not deter him, and we embarked upon an e-mail friendship.
It became clear to me that this was a man looking for an old-fashioned girl. He was a teacher in SoCal, an artist, and a cross-dresser. Quite the mix. Eventually he found my number and called me up, and he sent a video of himself, and it became an internet romance. Somehow, I'm not sure how or why, we decided to have me visit. There was a Van Gogh exhibit in the area, which was the official excuse.
Mind you, this was a married man, with a 20-something daughter who lived at home. His wife had had kidney disease for 20 years, going in to dialysis twice a week. And he was terrified of the time when she would finally succumb and he would be alone. I knew I could not be the solution to his problem, but I liked his sincere love of teaching and his belief that he could foster character growth even while he was teaching math. I'm a sucker for social activists. And I found that I liked his family, too.
The Van Gogh exhibit was great, and the stay was pleasant. I explored the town and walked by the orange groves. We went on some hikes and visited some missions and walked by the Pacific. Mainly, his wife and daughter went along. He sent me home with avocados and limes from his back yard, and I made the Best. Guacamole. Ever. when I returned to Portland. But, the pheromones just weren't there, and after that visit I wrote less and talked less and then I just stopped answering him. He was pushing for something I couldn't give.
This last summer he called and told me that his wife had died, and there was some disconnect with his daughter, but he was retired and working on his art. I told him I was married and moving to ABQ, and he wished me a good life. That's probably the last I'll hear of him.
I'm thinking of him, because I just joined OKCupid and created a profile there. And the responses have been very reminiscent of that previous online dating experience. Lots of men ignoring the profile and making up a person in place of the one I presented. Lots of widowers and lonely men, looking for that special lady. Lots of people who put God at the top of the list of 6 things they cannot do without. And lots of people ignoring the algorithm that says we are 43% enemies. (Then again, two of my friends on OKC also rate highly on the enemy scale. And highly on the match scale. So, I don't get how the calculations work.)
Truth be told, I joined OKC because I was sad and unable to focus on practising or reading or sleeping. (I was also coming down with an infection, but that's another story.) And I wanted to see what TheGWickham was doing. The Lizzie Bennet diaries are entering the home stretch, and I need to read the tea leaves. How are they going to deal with the Wickham-Lydia thread?!
Instead, I discovered why online dating is not for me: I can't bear to blow off these men. Yes, they are probably not who they say they are, and yes, they probably are just trolling for any willing female, playing the odds. But how can I say, what planet are you from? when they tell me I have an inviting smile and I am radiant and beautiful and have the potential to mend their broken hearts? When they live hundreds of miles away, from Manchester England to Massachusetts to Texas but still want to get to know me? When there is no way they understood what I meant by caveat emptor (I was alluding to the fact that I'm just getting over a 10-year marriage.) but they tell me my profile is wonderful? When we clearly have nothing in common, but they still write to me, pleading for a response?
Clearly, this is not the time to be doing this. I'm just a tad too vulnerable and it's just too big a time sump. But, I did discover a man whose favorite books include The Wind in the Willows, Sense and Sensibility, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Where the Wild Things Are. And whose music includes Nina Simone. That alone is worth the price of admission. Who knew?
Oh, and if you are curious: Wickham is "seeing someone" (Lydia?!) and he and I are a 75% match. Hmm. Wonder why he hasn't written to me.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Critical thinking 101
In 1997, Titanic came out and was a HUGE hit. In 2000, Finding Forrester, had its devotees. In 2007, the Paranormal Activity franchise (up to 5 movies now) started its journey.
What do these movies have in common? At first glance, nothing but a large following and entry into the popular imagination. But popular culture, the internet, and reference work have a way of entwining into an explosion of confusion, especially when you add the 3rd point of commonality: refgoddess tends to miss the popular movies.
So, back in 1997. I'm sitting at the reference desk. There is only one public internet computer at this time: the rest are an online catalog, and I'm still trying to help non-typists figure out how they work. It's an uphill battle, convincing people who like to shuffle through cards that really, computer keywords are much easier than following the arcane tracings of the card catalog. Those who like tactile serendipity are a stubborn lot, and I actually do sympathize.
Thus, I am delighted when teenagers approach my desk, as there is usually a fighting chance that I'll be able to teach them how to find something. They like computers. (Although even here my pop culture deficit can betray me. Who knew that the kid who asked about Machiavelli was doing personal reference, not schoolwork, looking for rap music, not political philosophy? And that the catalog was never going to find it until I typed Makaveli. But that's a mondegreen for another time.)
That day in 1997, the sweet girl asked for information about the "Heart of the Ocean." It's an old necklace, she said. Yeah, yeah, the rest of you know what this is about, but I just put the words in quotes (I wasn't even using Google at that point), and sent the query out into the ether. What I got was an advertisement. The girl was so excited: "I can buy it?!" By this time, I realized that the necklace was not real, that it was a plot device, and that I really should go see that movie. (I still haven't, but I've seen enough stills and parodies to hold my own.) I had the hardest time explaining the concept of movie tie-ins and marketing. I don't think I convinced her.
Fast forward to 2000. There are more public internet computers: about 50-50 catalog versus internet. We still don't have an effective reservation system, and there is an ongoing battle between the gamers and the "serious" researchers. " My e-mail is more important than his video game." "Get those kids off the computers". yadda yadda. And then there's the porn pod. I yearn for the days when porn was relegated to the privacy of the home or the adult movie theatres and the devotee understood that it was not a past-time for a public library where kids roam free and the staff is just not interested in your erection.
This time the teenager is researching a writer named William Forrester. He describes him in detail: he wrote a brilliant novel and then became totally reclusive, although he was kind to a local high school kid. I said, this sounds like J.D. Salinger. In researching the name, I came up a blank, but something clicked....oh yeah, there's a movie with that name. The kid confirmed that, indeed, he first heard about the writer via the silver screen. And I embarked on another difficult concept: movies that are based on a real character or event, but not actually about them. The term is roman a clef.
He wasn't interested.
Then I tried to tell him about JD Salinger, and his life-long attempt to preserve his privacy, in the face of attacks from the likes of Joyce Maynard and the local high school newspaper, both of whom got close enough to acquire publishable material and, in the case of the former, used that to financial advantage.
He wasn't interested in that either.
Fast forward to the present...a few weeks ago, I helped a young Hispanic gent who was asking about symbols and the occult. He was thin, covered in black tattoos, wore a heavy metal t-shirt, had dark cropped hair and carried a single cigarette behind one ear. He was also exceedingly polite and a joy to help: he listened intently to my explanations, big brown eyes thoughtful, gaze focused. I talked about different keywords, truncation symbols, Boolean logic and the effect they had on a search. I also found that we owned Man Myth and Magic, one of my very favorite references. He liked it too. I showed him how to hold materials, and he thanked me earnestly.
This week, he approached me again, telling me how very helpful the books had been. He found the symbol he was looking for, and now he wanted more information. So, he thought I'd better have the background to his request. As I sat at the counter/desk, he proceeded to draw the symbol and chart names and events. Using these visual aids, he told me a story of a coven of Mexican women who made a pact with a demon, promising their first born son in return, but, sadly for the demon, they birthed nothing but girls for the next few generations and then.....
I was stuck. There were no other customers, and no obvious work for me to do. I listened, aghast, to a story that I thought was based on urban legend or news story or something real until it finally sank in: my god this is a movie, and not just one movie. It goes on and on. Paranormal Activity, Paranormal Activity 2, etc. "So the 3rd movie goes back to explain what happened in the 2nd movie, which explained this detail in the 1st movie...." He gave me the plot of all 4, drawing arrows between terms, underlining, explaining the connections. "And it's all true, I found the symbol."
His girlfriend and I try to explain how movie makers research things and incorporate them into their stories. He nods, but remains fascinated: he wants to find the sources for himself. I actually approve of his bent towards intellectual rigor, but am unlikely to be able to help him: it requires training in research and databases.
And I'm a little appalled that he owns the deluxe boxed set of this movie.
I find a book about rituals and symbolism and give him a card so he can finally place holds for himself: he's been using his girlfriend's card.
I wonder if I should mention that there is a fifth movie, due out in October. But surely he knows?
And now I'm pondering....why is it harder to help the person who wants to plumb the divide between fact and fiction, who actually gets the concept of research, but doesn't have the time or training to pursue it? And what does it mean that he is unique in my experience? Most people are looking for the quick answer. While it is neat that people do come to the library for all kinds of information, and that I can help them without actually knowing anything about the topic, I worry about the lack of critical thinking that goes into their searches. I experience it daily on Facebook, in the newspapers, in overheard conversations, in my own mind. Praise be for researchers and whistle blowers and Snopes.com, islands of stability in the whirling chaos of sound bites, conspiracy theories, and urban myth.
But who has the time to actually utilize them?
What do these movies have in common? At first glance, nothing but a large following and entry into the popular imagination. But popular culture, the internet, and reference work have a way of entwining into an explosion of confusion, especially when you add the 3rd point of commonality: refgoddess tends to miss the popular movies.
So, back in 1997. I'm sitting at the reference desk. There is only one public internet computer at this time: the rest are an online catalog, and I'm still trying to help non-typists figure out how they work. It's an uphill battle, convincing people who like to shuffle through cards that really, computer keywords are much easier than following the arcane tracings of the card catalog. Those who like tactile serendipity are a stubborn lot, and I actually do sympathize.
Thus, I am delighted when teenagers approach my desk, as there is usually a fighting chance that I'll be able to teach them how to find something. They like computers. (Although even here my pop culture deficit can betray me. Who knew that the kid who asked about Machiavelli was doing personal reference, not schoolwork, looking for rap music, not political philosophy? And that the catalog was never going to find it until I typed Makaveli. But that's a mondegreen for another time.)
That day in 1997, the sweet girl asked for information about the "Heart of the Ocean." It's an old necklace, she said. Yeah, yeah, the rest of you know what this is about, but I just put the words in quotes (I wasn't even using Google at that point), and sent the query out into the ether. What I got was an advertisement. The girl was so excited: "I can buy it?!" By this time, I realized that the necklace was not real, that it was a plot device, and that I really should go see that movie. (I still haven't, but I've seen enough stills and parodies to hold my own.) I had the hardest time explaining the concept of movie tie-ins and marketing. I don't think I convinced her.
Fast forward to 2000. There are more public internet computers: about 50-50 catalog versus internet. We still don't have an effective reservation system, and there is an ongoing battle between the gamers and the "serious" researchers. " My e-mail is more important than his video game." "Get those kids off the computers". yadda yadda. And then there's the porn pod. I yearn for the days when porn was relegated to the privacy of the home or the adult movie theatres and the devotee understood that it was not a past-time for a public library where kids roam free and the staff is just not interested in your erection.
This time the teenager is researching a writer named William Forrester. He describes him in detail: he wrote a brilliant novel and then became totally reclusive, although he was kind to a local high school kid. I said, this sounds like J.D. Salinger. In researching the name, I came up a blank, but something clicked....oh yeah, there's a movie with that name. The kid confirmed that, indeed, he first heard about the writer via the silver screen. And I embarked on another difficult concept: movies that are based on a real character or event, but not actually about them. The term is roman a clef.
He wasn't interested.
Then I tried to tell him about JD Salinger, and his life-long attempt to preserve his privacy, in the face of attacks from the likes of Joyce Maynard and the local high school newspaper, both of whom got close enough to acquire publishable material and, in the case of the former, used that to financial advantage.
He wasn't interested in that either.
Fast forward to the present...a few weeks ago, I helped a young Hispanic gent who was asking about symbols and the occult. He was thin, covered in black tattoos, wore a heavy metal t-shirt, had dark cropped hair and carried a single cigarette behind one ear. He was also exceedingly polite and a joy to help: he listened intently to my explanations, big brown eyes thoughtful, gaze focused. I talked about different keywords, truncation symbols, Boolean logic and the effect they had on a search. I also found that we owned Man Myth and Magic, one of my very favorite references. He liked it too. I showed him how to hold materials, and he thanked me earnestly.
This week, he approached me again, telling me how very helpful the books had been. He found the symbol he was looking for, and now he wanted more information. So, he thought I'd better have the background to his request. As I sat at the counter/desk, he proceeded to draw the symbol and chart names and events. Using these visual aids, he told me a story of a coven of Mexican women who made a pact with a demon, promising their first born son in return, but, sadly for the demon, they birthed nothing but girls for the next few generations and then.....
I was stuck. There were no other customers, and no obvious work for me to do. I listened, aghast, to a story that I thought was based on urban legend or news story or something real until it finally sank in: my god this is a movie, and not just one movie. It goes on and on. Paranormal Activity, Paranormal Activity 2, etc. "So the 3rd movie goes back to explain what happened in the 2nd movie, which explained this detail in the 1st movie...." He gave me the plot of all 4, drawing arrows between terms, underlining, explaining the connections. "And it's all true, I found the symbol."
His girlfriend and I try to explain how movie makers research things and incorporate them into their stories. He nods, but remains fascinated: he wants to find the sources for himself. I actually approve of his bent towards intellectual rigor, but am unlikely to be able to help him: it requires training in research and databases.
And I'm a little appalled that he owns the deluxe boxed set of this movie.
I find a book about rituals and symbolism and give him a card so he can finally place holds for himself: he's been using his girlfriend's card.
I wonder if I should mention that there is a fifth movie, due out in October. But surely he knows?
And now I'm pondering....why is it harder to help the person who wants to plumb the divide between fact and fiction, who actually gets the concept of research, but doesn't have the time or training to pursue it? And what does it mean that he is unique in my experience? Most people are looking for the quick answer. While it is neat that people do come to the library for all kinds of information, and that I can help them without actually knowing anything about the topic, I worry about the lack of critical thinking that goes into their searches. I experience it daily on Facebook, in the newspapers, in overheard conversations, in my own mind. Praise be for researchers and whistle blowers and Snopes.com, islands of stability in the whirling chaos of sound bites, conspiracy theories, and urban myth.
But who has the time to actually utilize them?
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Not good enough
Yesterday was full of contradictory emotions. It started the day before, with frustrated messages from my lawyer and my boss, culminating in insomnia. It was based on physical reactions, not emotional, which is better than the insomnia based on circling thoughts and fears and grief, but it's still insomnia. And, regardless of the cause, the next day I have that logey sleep-deprived feeling, and my emotions are not under my control.
Actually, my emotions are usually not under control. I find myself at the mercy of other people's thoughts and actions, and I am so easily hurt by their judgments and critiques. Intellectually I know that every person has quirks and deficits of personality and capacity. I know that mine are myriad, but that they are also offset by major assets: intelligence, humor, kindness, talent, integrity. Whatever those words mean, I think I have them. But it isn't enough for me, and it doesn't seem to be enough for the people around me.
I'm not sure why some people need to feed off negative emotions and thoughts, and why I seem to attract such people. Or perhaps it's just that I seem to be unable to filter them out of my consciousness and self-talk.
Or, perhaps I need that negativity to validate my self-assessment. While I have an intellectual sense of self-worth, the emotional sense does not follow. For some reason, I don't believe myself lovable, and I don't trust that anyone really approves of me. I feel like I deserve the critical assessments of my character and capacity, even when I am hurt by the inaccuracies of the judgments.
Case in point: R and S told my boss that I don't do any work. That is patently untrue, and it makes me angry that they think and voice those thoughts. But, why do they need to go there? What is it about me that has drawn their enmity? I am good at my job, I am kind, I am supportive. But there is obviously some lack or problem with me that they cannot define accurately but that puts them into a critical view of me, one that they feel the need to act on.
My non-emotional assessment is that behavior is a result of the systems that are in place, and that this system encourages back-biting and power struggles. I am a strong person with a definite personality, and that paradoxically puts me in the vulnerable position. Flying under the radar does not seem to be in my capacity, and that's the only real defense.
But, I want to be proactive, and I want to spend my 40 weekly hours doing good work in a good environment. It's my job, as a leader, to set the tone, not to react to it.
Sadly, I just don't feel capable of that. I feel hurt, worn out, unfairly judged. I am going to the dark side: thinking that they are negative malignant people, and that I am a fuck up. And it's possible for them to be malicious and still be right.
I can't blame this on D, or my coll-workers. This is a long-standing problem for me. It may be exacerbated by 10 years in a negative environment, but the feeling of not being good enough is drearily familiar. While it has always been clear that I have excellence within me, it is also clear that I don't access it cleanly or consistently. I muddy the waters, expend my energy building walls and curling up into a fetal position, hiding from myself and the harsh judgments of the world.
So, when people tell me I am excellent, I don't believe it. I had to pull it out of them, they were kind and didn't want me to be hurt, the good things they say aren't true, and the bad things other people say are. I believe the people who are vicious, not the people I love. Above all, I realize that I will never be primary to anyone, never be good enough. I can't just enjoy what I have (and it's so very much): I have to yearn after what others have.
I put my energy in the wrong place.
Actually, my emotions are usually not under control. I find myself at the mercy of other people's thoughts and actions, and I am so easily hurt by their judgments and critiques. Intellectually I know that every person has quirks and deficits of personality and capacity. I know that mine are myriad, but that they are also offset by major assets: intelligence, humor, kindness, talent, integrity. Whatever those words mean, I think I have them. But it isn't enough for me, and it doesn't seem to be enough for the people around me.
I'm not sure why some people need to feed off negative emotions and thoughts, and why I seem to attract such people. Or perhaps it's just that I seem to be unable to filter them out of my consciousness and self-talk.
Or, perhaps I need that negativity to validate my self-assessment. While I have an intellectual sense of self-worth, the emotional sense does not follow. For some reason, I don't believe myself lovable, and I don't trust that anyone really approves of me. I feel like I deserve the critical assessments of my character and capacity, even when I am hurt by the inaccuracies of the judgments.
Case in point: R and S told my boss that I don't do any work. That is patently untrue, and it makes me angry that they think and voice those thoughts. But, why do they need to go there? What is it about me that has drawn their enmity? I am good at my job, I am kind, I am supportive. But there is obviously some lack or problem with me that they cannot define accurately but that puts them into a critical view of me, one that they feel the need to act on.
My non-emotional assessment is that behavior is a result of the systems that are in place, and that this system encourages back-biting and power struggles. I am a strong person with a definite personality, and that paradoxically puts me in the vulnerable position. Flying under the radar does not seem to be in my capacity, and that's the only real defense.
But, I want to be proactive, and I want to spend my 40 weekly hours doing good work in a good environment. It's my job, as a leader, to set the tone, not to react to it.
Sadly, I just don't feel capable of that. I feel hurt, worn out, unfairly judged. I am going to the dark side: thinking that they are negative malignant people, and that I am a fuck up. And it's possible for them to be malicious and still be right.
I can't blame this on D, or my coll-workers. This is a long-standing problem for me. It may be exacerbated by 10 years in a negative environment, but the feeling of not being good enough is drearily familiar. While it has always been clear that I have excellence within me, it is also clear that I don't access it cleanly or consistently. I muddy the waters, expend my energy building walls and curling up into a fetal position, hiding from myself and the harsh judgments of the world.
So, when people tell me I am excellent, I don't believe it. I had to pull it out of them, they were kind and didn't want me to be hurt, the good things they say aren't true, and the bad things other people say are. I believe the people who are vicious, not the people I love. Above all, I realize that I will never be primary to anyone, never be good enough. I can't just enjoy what I have (and it's so very much): I have to yearn after what others have.
I put my energy in the wrong place.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
The Lark Ascending
My love affair with Ralph Vaughan Williams goes back to my early 20s. My college choir had sung Reconciliation (from the Dona Nobis Pacem cantata), and the soloist was a lovely young man with a lovely baritone. But I didn't learn about his orchestral works until I moved to Portland. I still remember the discovery. I was living in a studio apartment in downtown SW, and my aunt was living in a 2 bedroom apartment near the Trinity Episcopal church in NW, about a mile away. She and her partner were going on a trip, and she asked me to house-sit for them.
The apartment was in an old building, with high ceilings, picture rails, hard wood floors, and steam heat radiators. It had comfortable and beautiful furniture, with enough empty space so that it could be appreciated, and it had an excellent stereo system to accommodate their eclectic taste in music. The lighting was provided by floor and table lamps, spilling pools of light in strategic places and leaving the rest of the room in soothing shadows. There were plenty of tall candles in old spindles. And there were coffee table art books plus a collection of classics and philosophical tomes.
The atmosphere was, in short, civilized. It was a gracious, calm home, and staying there was like being on vacation. I cooked simple meals in the long, narrow, well-stocked kitchen and settled in the living room for evenings of books and music. This was in the time of vinyl, so there were record jackets to read, too. I pulled out some old favorites, like George Winston's Autumn and Claude Bolling/Jean Paul Rampal's Suite for Flute and Jazz Piano.
And then I found the Vaughan Williams record. The jacket had a picture of an English countryside, the violinist was Iona Brown, the orchestra was the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, Neville Mariner conducting. It had Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, Fantasia on Greensleves, Variants on Dives and Lazarus, and The Lark Ascending. I listened to it over and over, the luscious orchestration and beautiful melodies echoing against the wood and tall ceilings. I was young, alone in a big city, wrapped about by a loveliness that was almost spiritual. I was in love.
In the years since, I've played the orchestral parts of all of those, I've sung the complete Dona Nobis Pacem, and I've heard the Lark played by several excellent violinists. I thought I knew all it had to tell me, and that it belonged to that comfortable substrata of experiences that inform and support my current life. But I am always happy to hear it again.
So, when I noticed last December that David Felberg was going to play the Lark with the Santa Fe Orchestra this February, I made a date with my stand partner to attend. David is the conductor of the APO, which I joined in September, and he is the first conductor I've had who was a violinist. He looks like Puck: thick curly red hair with side burns, pointed eyebrows, pale skin, mischievous grin. I relish his musicality and gently firm expectations of us ("you should WANT to play it fast," "it would be really nice if those two F's matched," "it's coming along....you do know we don't have any more rehearsals left?") His conducting and face are music made visible: I often wish the audience could be privileged with the experience the musicians have of hearing his musical interpretation and following his lead.
But, although he sometimes picks up the concertmaster's violin to demonstrate a point, I hadn't experienced him as a violinist. It was a revelation. The technique was brilliant, with clear precise notes, sweet vibrato, effortless slides, double-stops so perfect they produced harmonic overtones....but it was the interpretation that overwhelmed me. Previously I had been aware of the ache of the beauty and longing of the lark for the sky, but today I felt the joy as well. The sweet trills, the soaring melodies, the dancing folk tunes, the accompaniment of lush strings and floating winds permeated my ears and body with gorgeous sound. I felt large tears trickling down my face as I listened, and I wiped them away without shame. I have seldom been so moved by a performance.
At intermission I uploaded a picture of the Lensic foyer, along with a doggerel haiku:
Now I want to hear him play the Bach Chaconne for solo violin.
The apartment was in an old building, with high ceilings, picture rails, hard wood floors, and steam heat radiators. It had comfortable and beautiful furniture, with enough empty space so that it could be appreciated, and it had an excellent stereo system to accommodate their eclectic taste in music. The lighting was provided by floor and table lamps, spilling pools of light in strategic places and leaving the rest of the room in soothing shadows. There were plenty of tall candles in old spindles. And there were coffee table art books plus a collection of classics and philosophical tomes.
The atmosphere was, in short, civilized. It was a gracious, calm home, and staying there was like being on vacation. I cooked simple meals in the long, narrow, well-stocked kitchen and settled in the living room for evenings of books and music. This was in the time of vinyl, so there were record jackets to read, too. I pulled out some old favorites, like George Winston's Autumn and Claude Bolling/Jean Paul Rampal's Suite for Flute and Jazz Piano.
And then I found the Vaughan Williams record. The jacket had a picture of an English countryside, the violinist was Iona Brown, the orchestra was the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, Neville Mariner conducting. It had Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, Fantasia on Greensleves, Variants on Dives and Lazarus, and The Lark Ascending. I listened to it over and over, the luscious orchestration and beautiful melodies echoing against the wood and tall ceilings. I was young, alone in a big city, wrapped about by a loveliness that was almost spiritual. I was in love.
In the years since, I've played the orchestral parts of all of those, I've sung the complete Dona Nobis Pacem, and I've heard the Lark played by several excellent violinists. I thought I knew all it had to tell me, and that it belonged to that comfortable substrata of experiences that inform and support my current life. But I am always happy to hear it again.
So, when I noticed last December that David Felberg was going to play the Lark with the Santa Fe Orchestra this February, I made a date with my stand partner to attend. David is the conductor of the APO, which I joined in September, and he is the first conductor I've had who was a violinist. He looks like Puck: thick curly red hair with side burns, pointed eyebrows, pale skin, mischievous grin. I relish his musicality and gently firm expectations of us ("you should WANT to play it fast," "it would be really nice if those two F's matched," "it's coming along....you do know we don't have any more rehearsals left?") His conducting and face are music made visible: I often wish the audience could be privileged with the experience the musicians have of hearing his musical interpretation and following his lead.
But, although he sometimes picks up the concertmaster's violin to demonstrate a point, I hadn't experienced him as a violinist. It was a revelation. The technique was brilliant, with clear precise notes, sweet vibrato, effortless slides, double-stops so perfect they produced harmonic overtones....but it was the interpretation that overwhelmed me. Previously I had been aware of the ache of the beauty and longing of the lark for the sky, but today I felt the joy as well. The sweet trills, the soaring melodies, the dancing folk tunes, the accompaniment of lush strings and floating winds permeated my ears and body with gorgeous sound. I felt large tears trickling down my face as I listened, and I wiped them away without shame. I have seldom been so moved by a performance.
At intermission I uploaded a picture of the Lensic foyer, along with a doggerel haiku:
 |
| The sweet notes trilled while Melody soared, tears dropped, and The lark ascended. |
Monday, February 11, 2013
Regrets, I've had a few
I don't even like Sinatra, or the song. But when a Facebook (and old school) friend posted a Guardian article about the five top dying regrets, I found myself quoting "My Way." As with many things, it was a serendipitous posting, fitting in with my current thoughts.
Minor Geminid digression:
I once heard that the reason you notice things is because of the filtering part of your brain. (Gotta get something out of those management classes!) Without the filter, you'd go into sensory overload. But, once you've created a pathway, the filter lets things through. Agatha Christie mentions this phenomenon in They Came to Baghdad. It's universal: once something grabs your attention, you see it everywhere.
So, I'm thinking about regrets? Yes. This is not the same as regretting things. It fits into my personal work: I've been going over my assignment from my therapist. What do I want, need, deserve? It is significant, I think, that in my previous post I turned Deserve into Desire. Apparently, I don't want to think about what I deserve. Desire is need, so is want, and I turned the exercise into a puzzle: how do I differentiate? I spun my wheels, trying to fit my list into increasingly abstruse categories. Is healthy food a need or a want? What about love? Clearly a desire....but is it also a need? What about meaningful work? friends? safety?
Here's the list I dictated into the phone while sitting on a bench outside during a long break: food, lodging, meaningful work, safety, security, goals, creativity, love, friends, serenity, connections, music, writing, books, exercise, amusement, sleep, healthy food, wine, sweetness, laughter, joy, fun, a lover, purpose, stability, money, peace, someone to take care of me, strength, competence, self-confidence, time, adventure, activity, health, wisdom.
Then I started spinning my wheels further, analyzing the order in which I thought of things. Does it indicate my priorities? Or something deeper? I observed that I started with the concrete, included a lot of my Shoulds, and smuggled in only a few emotional needs. And that I followed "someone to take care of me" with a bunch of self-sufficient qualities. It's a disjointed, contradictory list.
Even when I'm trying to figure out how I got into this emotional pickle, even when I'm trying to dig my way out, I seem unable to focus on the sweet, joyous things in life: love, friends, happiness. It's no accident that the Declaration of Independence does not talk about basic needs (food, lodging, work). It talks about life, liberty, pursuit of happiness. It does not attempt to define happiness or the way it is pursued. Why can't my own declaration go in that direction?
And this is where regret comes in. There I was, sitting on a bench outside the Balloon Museum, facing my beloved Sandias, watching the play of New Mexican light over the mountain, following the clouds in the endless sky. Why wasn't I walking, taking photos, basking in the beauty around me and rejoicing in the health of my body? Why was I focusing inward instead of outward? Why didn't I do something useful with my life, the little bits and pieces that I have to work with?
The big regret is waste: waste of time, opportunity, talent. And I think the real waste is only slowly coming to me. I am wasting my joy. When something wonderful happens to me, I transmogrify it into a problem. When someone tells me I am loved, I question it. When I try to think of what I deserve, I dodge the question.
Now, this is who I am. I think too much. In the long run, what does that accomplish? What seems like a waste could be seen as the necessary part of the whole, neither good nor bad. The yin and the yang, as it were. However you see it, the waste is inseparable from the procession of events that make up a life. It's a product. And so is regret. It's what thinking humans do. You get a result and you rejoice, but you also regret. So sue me.
After all this musing, I end up with the Declaration of Independence. I have the right to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Looking to my list, I find that it's easy to categorize from this point. I deserve these rights. I need the basics to use my rights: food and shelter, work and play. I want the things that enhance these needs: security, stability, creativity, meaning//purpose, health, money, amusement, aesthetics, exercise of mind and body. Coming full circle, I deserve the intangibles that inform these wants and needs: love, laughter, joy, friendship. Where does regret fit in? It probably shouldn't come into this at all. But I do regret the time and energy I waste in the pursuit of unhappiness.
However, I don't fucking need, want, or deserve someone to take care of me. Let's make that perfectly clear.
Minor Geminid digression:
I once heard that the reason you notice things is because of the filtering part of your brain. (Gotta get something out of those management classes!) Without the filter, you'd go into sensory overload. But, once you've created a pathway, the filter lets things through. Agatha Christie mentions this phenomenon in They Came to Baghdad. It's universal: once something grabs your attention, you see it everywhere.
So, I'm thinking about regrets? Yes. This is not the same as regretting things. It fits into my personal work: I've been going over my assignment from my therapist. What do I want, need, deserve? It is significant, I think, that in my previous post I turned Deserve into Desire. Apparently, I don't want to think about what I deserve. Desire is need, so is want, and I turned the exercise into a puzzle: how do I differentiate? I spun my wheels, trying to fit my list into increasingly abstruse categories. Is healthy food a need or a want? What about love? Clearly a desire....but is it also a need? What about meaningful work? friends? safety?
Here's the list I dictated into the phone while sitting on a bench outside during a long break: food, lodging, meaningful work, safety, security, goals, creativity, love, friends, serenity, connections, music, writing, books, exercise, amusement, sleep, healthy food, wine, sweetness, laughter, joy, fun, a lover, purpose, stability, money, peace, someone to take care of me, strength, competence, self-confidence, time, adventure, activity, health, wisdom.
Then I started spinning my wheels further, analyzing the order in which I thought of things. Does it indicate my priorities? Or something deeper? I observed that I started with the concrete, included a lot of my Shoulds, and smuggled in only a few emotional needs. And that I followed "someone to take care of me" with a bunch of self-sufficient qualities. It's a disjointed, contradictory list.
Even when I'm trying to figure out how I got into this emotional pickle, even when I'm trying to dig my way out, I seem unable to focus on the sweet, joyous things in life: love, friends, happiness. It's no accident that the Declaration of Independence does not talk about basic needs (food, lodging, work). It talks about life, liberty, pursuit of happiness. It does not attempt to define happiness or the way it is pursued. Why can't my own declaration go in that direction?
And this is where regret comes in. There I was, sitting on a bench outside the Balloon Museum, facing my beloved Sandias, watching the play of New Mexican light over the mountain, following the clouds in the endless sky. Why wasn't I walking, taking photos, basking in the beauty around me and rejoicing in the health of my body? Why was I focusing inward instead of outward? Why didn't I do something useful with my life, the little bits and pieces that I have to work with?
The big regret is waste: waste of time, opportunity, talent. And I think the real waste is only slowly coming to me. I am wasting my joy. When something wonderful happens to me, I transmogrify it into a problem. When someone tells me I am loved, I question it. When I try to think of what I deserve, I dodge the question.
Now, this is who I am. I think too much. In the long run, what does that accomplish? What seems like a waste could be seen as the necessary part of the whole, neither good nor bad. The yin and the yang, as it were. However you see it, the waste is inseparable from the procession of events that make up a life. It's a product. And so is regret. It's what thinking humans do. You get a result and you rejoice, but you also regret. So sue me.
After all this musing, I end up with the Declaration of Independence. I have the right to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Looking to my list, I find that it's easy to categorize from this point. I deserve these rights. I need the basics to use my rights: food and shelter, work and play. I want the things that enhance these needs: security, stability, creativity, meaning//purpose, health, money, amusement, aesthetics, exercise of mind and body. Coming full circle, I deserve the intangibles that inform these wants and needs: love, laughter, joy, friendship. Where does regret fit in? It probably shouldn't come into this at all. But I do regret the time and energy I waste in the pursuit of unhappiness.
However, I don't fucking need, want, or deserve someone to take care of me. Let's make that perfectly clear.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Getting lost
For some reason, I was telling a friend about my trip to Italy, and the truly epic ways in which I could get lost, despite an excellent map, guidebook, and brain. Siena was the worst, because I was fresh off the train, tired, hungry, and looking for a place to stay. The old town is a series of twisting circular streets, all leading to the Piazza. I found the tourist place on the Piazza, but instead of calling for me, they gave me three addresses and sent me and my heavy 20-year-old pack into the cobbled streets. The backpack was left over from my post-college one-month Eurail-hostel vagabondage, but the body was much less able to handle the weight.
The first stop, I recall, was at a blank door in the middle of an uncharming (for Siena) street. I buzzed for the landlady, and a bald slatternly woman buzzed me in. She was standing at the top of a steep flight of stairs, and she had no English. I climbed up to see an absolute hole-in-the-wall, with taped-up windows and a dirty quilt.
I left.
I can't remember what happened at the next place, but from there I was wandering the streets turning the exact wrong way whenever it was possible to. Did I mention that the streets were twisting and curvy? There were also a lot of intersections. When I finally reached a sweet little hotel on a quiet street, I was in no state to deal with any more roadblocks. So, when the young man with the melting brown eyes said, "I'm sorry, we have no rooms available tonight," I looked at him and said, "I think I'm going to cry." I didn't think I was serious, but he did, and when he said, "No, don't cry Miss," I found out...yes, I was going to cry. I gulped and gasped, and he got on the phone and found me a space at the Youth Hostel and a cab to take me there.
I thought I was remembering this, because I am still able to get totally lost, even when I know the place, even when I have my smart phone to tell me the way. Last week, when V was visiting, she was ready to smack the phone out of my hand: she had a perfectly good map and was giving me adequate directions. She thought. But she was right in that I had no business trying to use the smart phone while I was driving.
It's funny: in my past life, I would never dream of texting or phoning while I was driving, and I would totally get myself equipped with good maps and directions, or be prepared to spend some time exploring. But now I've abandoned those skills in favor of the sound-bite, GIS technology. Google is my guide, and that's a pretty scary thought.
I think I need to find a better guide, and not just for my physical travels.
Today, my therapist took issue with all the "shoulds" yattering in my brain. I had been whining: I should make more money, do more creative things during my time off, practise more (well, I SHOULD), be a better friend, etc etc etc. But then she gave me a Should of her own: figure out what I Need, what I Want, what I Desire. Three different things, she says. (Which makes three more Shoulds....)
After writing this, I think I know what I NEED: the ability to manage being lost. I don't know where I am or where I am going. But I have a pretty good map, guidebook and brain. And my friends and family are pretty nice concierges, even if they don't have melting brown eyes and an Italian accent.
So, time to explore.
The first stop, I recall, was at a blank door in the middle of an uncharming (for Siena) street. I buzzed for the landlady, and a bald slatternly woman buzzed me in. She was standing at the top of a steep flight of stairs, and she had no English. I climbed up to see an absolute hole-in-the-wall, with taped-up windows and a dirty quilt.
I left.
I can't remember what happened at the next place, but from there I was wandering the streets turning the exact wrong way whenever it was possible to. Did I mention that the streets were twisting and curvy? There were also a lot of intersections. When I finally reached a sweet little hotel on a quiet street, I was in no state to deal with any more roadblocks. So, when the young man with the melting brown eyes said, "I'm sorry, we have no rooms available tonight," I looked at him and said, "I think I'm going to cry." I didn't think I was serious, but he did, and when he said, "No, don't cry Miss," I found out...yes, I was going to cry. I gulped and gasped, and he got on the phone and found me a space at the Youth Hostel and a cab to take me there.
I thought I was remembering this, because I am still able to get totally lost, even when I know the place, even when I have my smart phone to tell me the way. Last week, when V was visiting, she was ready to smack the phone out of my hand: she had a perfectly good map and was giving me adequate directions. She thought. But she was right in that I had no business trying to use the smart phone while I was driving.
It's funny: in my past life, I would never dream of texting or phoning while I was driving, and I would totally get myself equipped with good maps and directions, or be prepared to spend some time exploring. But now I've abandoned those skills in favor of the sound-bite, GIS technology. Google is my guide, and that's a pretty scary thought.
I think I need to find a better guide, and not just for my physical travels.
Today, my therapist took issue with all the "shoulds" yattering in my brain. I had been whining: I should make more money, do more creative things during my time off, practise more (well, I SHOULD), be a better friend, etc etc etc. But then she gave me a Should of her own: figure out what I Need, what I Want, what I Desire. Three different things, she says. (Which makes three more Shoulds....)
After writing this, I think I know what I NEED: the ability to manage being lost. I don't know where I am or where I am going. But I have a pretty good map, guidebook and brain. And my friends and family are pretty nice concierges, even if they don't have melting brown eyes and an Italian accent.
So, time to explore.
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