I was trying to describe a fabulous collection of short fantasy tales,The Beastly Bride and other tales, and my interlocutor said, "Why do straight women always like that sort of story?" Well, I don't know, but ever since Beauty and the Beast, I've had a fondness for tales of selkies and other changelings. This doesn't include the Little Mermaid: she's too sappy and her tragedy isn't that she wants to be human but that she trusts in the love of a total stranger. No, I'm thinking of books like Owl in Love, in which the eponymous Owl grows into her dual self and eventually grows beyond her crush, or The Changeling Sea, which is atmospheric and wonderful like all Patricia McKillip's books.
So, when the Met broadcast Rusalka in HD, I was all over it. E was not, but I talked her into it by playing a YouTube of Renee Fleming singing her signature aria, Song to the Moon. It's a truly beautiful song, and she is a truly beautiful singer. I had watched her a few weeks before, singing the Star Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl, and I swear, it brought a patriotic tear to my eye. For the first time in my life, I heard the power of those lyrics. My god, it was a battle! And the flag was still there!! Yes, get an opera singer at the Super Bowl, and magic will happen. (It was the only magic of the day, the game being a major rout.)
Sadly, the screening of Rusalka was a disappointment. Don't get me wrong. The set was gorgeous, the singing beautiful, the actors excellent. In particular, Jezibaba played her witchiness with humor and wisdom - a crone, not a hag. But, but, but....Rusalka, the water nymph, makes her first appearance in a tree and doesn't come down for ages. She sits up there, writhing around the branches, and I am distracted, waiting for her to fall. Then, she becomes mute with the spell that turns her into a human, and she writhes all through the second act. Oy.
Still, it is a powerful story, the story of transformation, of wanting to be one with The Other. And it rarely seems to turn out well. In Beauty, the beast turns back into a prince and loses much of his attraction. But usually the transformation goes from beast to human and back. In Rusalka and The Little Mermaid, the transformation doesn't stick, and everyone dies. In Dark of the Moon, the Witch Boy is betrayed by his lover, she dies and goes to heaven, and he goes back to being an imp with nothing to look forward to but 2000 years.
The question is....can the transformation stick? and does anyone learn anything through the experience? Why do these stories have such a hold on us? Is it because we want to change, or because we are afraid to change, and we need the cautionary tales to give us an excuse to stay where we are?
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Rakish? Me?
One of the attractive things about online dating is the opportunity for reinvention. Reinvention is what I'm about right now, after all. Or, is it recovery? Hmmm. I am reinventing my lifestyle, sure, but am I reinventing myself? I don't think so.
I have always seen myself through others' eyes. I don't trust my self-assessment, and I'm constantly checking in: was that annoying? diverting? frustrating? enchanting? boring? fascinating? Can I trust the reaction? How much does it have to do with me, and how much with the other person's issues? Online dating puts all these questions into a sharp focus, because all you have to go by are the words. You can't be distracted by the smiles and laughter, the outward game face. Yes, there is obfuscation and outright lying, but the words are there, ready to be dissected. And if the grammar sucks, well that's one more thing to add to the critical mix.
So, I'm looking at other people's words and carefully crafting my own. In the process, I realize that I am not capable of reinventing myself, not really. My core is as it ever was, and I don't see any way to change that. I'm not sure I want to. A few weeks ago I had a bout of extreme weepiness. I was visiting S; he was working in his computer lab, and I was sitting nearby writing out my grief, tears dripping down (but I don't think he saw them). I wrote: I am the person I've always been. Stronger, but still needy. Resilient, but still fragile. Fragile. The song D sang to me at our wedding.
I won't share the rest of that writing....too whiny, too self-absorbed, too full of information about relationships, too full of self-recrimination, too sad. What's important is what came next. I was walking at sunset one day, and suddenly I felt like Sylvia Plath: the bell jar had lifted and I was free to the circulating air. Not only had it lifted, it was gone. I suddenly understood what others had been seeing for so long: in its absence it made itself known to me. In its place was myself.
And what was myself? At that moment, my self was walking in a landscape littered with juniper, pinon, rocks, and cactus. The sky stretched overhead, filled with blues and fluffy whites and yellows and pinks and oranges. The wind rushed through the branches, the mountains outlined on the horizons were grey-green rockpiles, filling in with slate blue shadows. And I saw every detail, FELT every detail, without that deadening sense of remove. I was actually there. I think I took a photo and wrote a haiku, as I have been doing endlessly over the years and months of my depression. But I didn't need to, as I have in the past. I needed no product to prove I was there.
So, I was there, but who was I? And why was I? I'm still working on that. Socrates says, Know Thyself. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. It seems that I have gone more elemental than that. I feel, therefore I am. I feel myself, I recognize myself, but I don't know myself, and I don't know what I was put here to do. (But, that's a topic for another blog.) What I do know is that the self I want to know was muffled under a coating of stress and grief and sadness. Pulling off that blanket and keeping it off are the tasks of the moment.
So, recovery, not reinvention. I want myself back. And it seems that it's happened, at least for the nonce. In my recent visit with my sister and brother, I felt that. And L did too. He wrote to my siblings: [She] looked good - that might have been an illusion but she appeared to be on the mend. Yes. I know that depression and anxiety and panic are part of me, but they don't need to define me, nor do they need to separate me from my life. And, in the meantime, I can toy all I want with lovers and jobs and creations. I can meet people online and at activities and through others. I can talk story (and every tale we tell is equal parts invention and truth, our own particular truth.) Those things I can reinvent. It might even be necessary to do so, to move far away from the people and things and thoughts that brought me into a marriage with D.
But what I can't do is hide who I am. The other day I was describing myself to a woman, unknown to me, whom I was scheduled to pick up at the airport: I am 5'10", 240 lbs, shoulder length white/grey hair, glasses. E later sent her another description: She is a big tall woman, maybe 5'11" and perhaps 230 lbs, with sort of rakish white/gray hair, big brown eyes, and a beautiful smile.
Not much disagreement there. But it doesn't reach the core of who I am.
I have always seen myself through others' eyes. I don't trust my self-assessment, and I'm constantly checking in: was that annoying? diverting? frustrating? enchanting? boring? fascinating? Can I trust the reaction? How much does it have to do with me, and how much with the other person's issues? Online dating puts all these questions into a sharp focus, because all you have to go by are the words. You can't be distracted by the smiles and laughter, the outward game face. Yes, there is obfuscation and outright lying, but the words are there, ready to be dissected. And if the grammar sucks, well that's one more thing to add to the critical mix.
So, I'm looking at other people's words and carefully crafting my own. In the process, I realize that I am not capable of reinventing myself, not really. My core is as it ever was, and I don't see any way to change that. I'm not sure I want to. A few weeks ago I had a bout of extreme weepiness. I was visiting S; he was working in his computer lab, and I was sitting nearby writing out my grief, tears dripping down (but I don't think he saw them). I wrote: I am the person I've always been. Stronger, but still needy. Resilient, but still fragile. Fragile. The song D sang to me at our wedding.
I won't share the rest of that writing....too whiny, too self-absorbed, too full of information about relationships, too full of self-recrimination, too sad. What's important is what came next. I was walking at sunset one day, and suddenly I felt like Sylvia Plath: the bell jar had lifted and I was free to the circulating air. Not only had it lifted, it was gone. I suddenly understood what others had been seeing for so long: in its absence it made itself known to me. In its place was myself.
And what was myself? At that moment, my self was walking in a landscape littered with juniper, pinon, rocks, and cactus. The sky stretched overhead, filled with blues and fluffy whites and yellows and pinks and oranges. The wind rushed through the branches, the mountains outlined on the horizons were grey-green rockpiles, filling in with slate blue shadows. And I saw every detail, FELT every detail, without that deadening sense of remove. I was actually there. I think I took a photo and wrote a haiku, as I have been doing endlessly over the years and months of my depression. But I didn't need to, as I have in the past. I needed no product to prove I was there.
So, I was there, but who was I? And why was I? I'm still working on that. Socrates says, Know Thyself. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. It seems that I have gone more elemental than that. I feel, therefore I am. I feel myself, I recognize myself, but I don't know myself, and I don't know what I was put here to do. (But, that's a topic for another blog.) What I do know is that the self I want to know was muffled under a coating of stress and grief and sadness. Pulling off that blanket and keeping it off are the tasks of the moment.
So, recovery, not reinvention. I want myself back. And it seems that it's happened, at least for the nonce. In my recent visit with my sister and brother, I felt that. And L did too. He wrote to my siblings: [She] looked good - that might have been an illusion but she appeared to be on the mend. Yes. I know that depression and anxiety and panic are part of me, but they don't need to define me, nor do they need to separate me from my life. And, in the meantime, I can toy all I want with lovers and jobs and creations. I can meet people online and at activities and through others. I can talk story (and every tale we tell is equal parts invention and truth, our own particular truth.) Those things I can reinvent. It might even be necessary to do so, to move far away from the people and things and thoughts that brought me into a marriage with D.
But what I can't do is hide who I am. The other day I was describing myself to a woman, unknown to me, whom I was scheduled to pick up at the airport: I am 5'10", 240 lbs, shoulder length white/grey hair, glasses. E later sent her another description: She is a big tall woman, maybe 5'11" and perhaps 230 lbs, with sort of rakish white/gray hair, big brown eyes, and a beautiful smile.
Not much disagreement there. But it doesn't reach the core of who I am.
Everything's up to date in Kansas City....
I went to Kansas City for a long weekend, catching the train from Lamy station, outside of Santa Fe. For reasons that pass understanding, there is no station in the state capitol. The official reason given is that the terrain is too rough, but considering the jaunt through Apache Canyon and over the Raton pass, that excuse just doesn't jibe. My guess is there was some gerrymandering back in the 1880s. Be that as it may, it's a beautiful little station, with old wooden benches inside and lots of brick waiting areas outside. One of Roosevelt's train carriages is at permanent rest there. I chatted with a couple bound for Chicago. They make this trip regularly to be with the elderly Mom. They say there used to be a nice restaurant (a former Harvey House) across the street, and the town itself was quaint and sweet. Now the restaurant is closed, and it all seems pretty derelict. And, it appears that the Lamy station may be closing, as well, with passenger traffic routed from Albuquerque through Texas, instead of up through Colorado and Kansas. That would be too bad: it's a beautiful ride.
The Amtrak employee was around my age. She called everyone "hon," and her name was Cheryl. I had spoken with her on the phone, trying to get the scoop on the parking lot. The Amtrak page said "NO LONG TERM PARKING!" and that just didn't make sense. Yes, there's a shuttle (the details of which are well hidden), but surely I'm not the only person who doesn't want to make friends or family drive for an hour to this back-of-beyond place. She said, well, we don't officially provide parking, but the townsfolk keep an eye on things, and nothing has ever been vandalized. That was good enough for me. However, I was apparently still a little nervous. Just as the train came in I thought, "Did I remember to lock the car?" Fortunately, the station is so small, a few steps to the side brought me close enough to the car to point my key and click the lock button. The headlights flashed reassuringly, and I boarded the train.
The train takes 18 hours to get from Lamy to Kansas City. It's an enchanting ride through north eastern New Mexico, past Starvation Peak, through S bends where you can see the other end of the train, and across the prairies. Both times I've taken this train, the moon has been full. Both times I've curled up on my seat and dozed. Both times, I've been exhausted when I reached my destination.
Union Station in Kansas City is old and beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, tall decorated windows and echoing marble. The wood benches are gone from the old waiting room, which is a long hall in the middle of the station. The current waiting room is small and low-ceilinged, with glaring fluorescent lights and unlovely vending machines. I don't get it: why not use the perfectly good and beautiful old space?
I arrived half an hour early, and M overslept, so I had breakfast at the Harvey restaurant (a nod to the old Harvey House, I gather.) The atmosphere was lovely: Judy Garland et al on the sound system, a circular covered structure in the middle of the lobby, dark wooden chairs and long tablecloths. I had really bad coffee and mediocre eggs and limp bacon. I could taste the oleo butter substitute. Erk.
Then M arrived and we drove back through the freeways to the Drury Hotel, out east on I70, across from the two sports arenas. Kansas City's downtown is encircled by a rounded rectangle of interstates, with state highways paralleling and intersecting. I couldn't tell if there was a reasonable public transport system, but we needed the GPS the entire time we were there. The maps didn't make sense, nor did the exits. D, who did most of the programming, said, "Trust the voice," and eventually we did. As a passenger, I never did figure out the topography. But it was typical of midwest river towns: the freeways soared through off-white sandstone bluffs and bottom lands filled with thin scrubby trees. The U district featured 2-story brick houses with wrap-around stone porches and the occasional porte cochere. Other districts had wood frame houses with wrought iron railings leading up to the concrete stoop at the screened front door.
It was cold and wintry, and I felt right at home.
When I got to my room, I was ready to crash for a bit. But, I'd called V from the train the afternoon before and this was the moment she called back: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" She was scratching her head a bit: while KC has apparently been on her list for the last 10 years, since the art museum built its addition, I had never indicated an interest. I said, I'm here to listen to a reputedly wonderful blue guitarist from Canada, and to visit the art museum. (And, as it turned out, to eat excellent BBQ.) She said, if you were going to wander on your days off, why not visit me in Phoenix, it's 70 degrees here. (It was 20 degrees in KC.) I promised to do some reconnaissance and come back with her when it was warmer.
We hung up, and the phone rang again. This time it was my sister E: "What were you doing in Raton?" I had posted a sunset picture of Raton station on Facebook: it was a smoking/fresh-air-break point. Apparently it is also a destination for gun aficionados, and she had received some excellent pointers when she and D stopped by en route to California. I explained again, and I could feel her shrug. Well, as long as you're okay, keep me posted. And we hung up.
Then I checked FB, and there was a message from JMR: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" I wrote back, listening to blues and eating BBQ, and then I went to bed.
D was not feeling well, so we left her to rest while we visited the City Market and the Arabia Steamboat Museum, which was located just off the Market. The outdoor part of the market is the main draw: booths and dancing and music and crafts, none of which are in evidence during the winter months. The market is ringed by permanent shops and vendors, all of which close around 2:30 pm. So, we focused on the Museum, which was quite enthralling. Apparently, the Arabia had run into a snag, back in the 1850s and by the next day was sunk into the mud and murk of the Missouri River. Salvage apparently wasn't possible right then, and the insurance paid around $10,500. In the 1980's the Hawley family and friends excavated the ship: the river had been shifted half a mile away and they were digging in a cornfield with pumps going non-stop to keep the ground water out. The original intent was to sell the salvage, but instead it is in this fascinating museum, providing a unique window into pre-Civil War life.
We spent a couple of hours there, and I could have spent more. M and our tour guide were both trained at the same institution, so they spent a lot of time chatting about that. She steered us to Jack Stack for our evening BBQ visit. I texted N and S, who had advised me to to try Oklahoma Joe's or BB's Lawnside. N informed me that the tour guide was a poor benighted Kansas City-an who didn't know from Texas BBQ. I said, what about Zagat's opinion, and she said, they don't know Texas BBQ either. S, the actual Texan, was kinder about it, but still suggested I go with Oklahoma Joe's.
We went with Jack Stack, and I flirted with the 30-something waiter. Clearly, I'm feeling better about myself.
The concert was at Knuckleheads Saloon, a ramshackle collection of indoor and outdoor spaces hidden away in an industrial district. The Voice sent us around a General Mills factory and over the railroad tracks, and we ended up in a gravel lot catty-corner from the bar. There was a lot of neon (my favorite proclaimed "no pissy attitudes allowed"), and plastic sheeting surrounded the outdoor venues. Our venue was an intimate (read TINY) space, with some tables in the center, backless stools around the perimeter, and a small area with rows of seats off to the side. We settled to the left of the entrance. Ages were mixed, but most of the tables in the "spray zone" were filled with older couples. A row of rowdy plaid-shirted young men and women sat across the back, nearby. I would have been annoyed, but they clearly got the excellence of the performer, once he arrived, and it became part of the scene.
Matt Andersen is an ENORMOUS young man, with long scraggly red hair which he tosses back at intervals. A wispy moustache sits above a cherry bud mouth from which a gravelly voice issues, and he wore the plaid shirt and jeans that are apparently his trademark, as he made mention of it during one of his intro monologues. He was totally worth the trip: could play the hell out of the guitar, and could also introduce subtleties. I can see why M was impressed by him when he won the International Blues Competition a few years back. I'd see him again.
Afterwards, we checked out the cover band in the larger venue, but were unimpressed.
The next day was dedicated to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. They were featuring French Impressionists and photographers, and I could spend several days here. The special exhibit was a mere $7, and the rest was free if we so chose. As usual, I got pulled in several different directions. The Asian art is pretty amazing, I was enthralled by the Islamic art, and there is a room dedicated to Thomas Hart Benton, whom I studied in college. (It makes sense that he would be featured: he was a Regionalist and settled in Kansas City at the KC Art Institute.)
We spent 4 hours and then met another of Mike's online friends at BB's Lawnside. D ordered a BBQ sundae, which was all about the presentation: pulled pork, beans and cole slaw layered in a glass. It was tasty enough, but not enough pulled pork: word to the wise. I got burnt ends, which were new to me and quite wonderful: all the taste and texture of ribs without gnawing on the bones. However, the whole point of the place is the party atmosphere. Live music is the name of the game, and there are no tables for two. The bar is at one end, and the stage at the other, while in between are ranged long narrow picnic tables covered in red and white checked plastic table cloths. We were lucky enough to find four chairs together, two on each side, in the middle of the table farthest from the door and music. The noise was deafening. Our waitress took advantage of a brief lull to get our orders, but there was no conversation for some time. The music was so-so, but it was neat because it was a jam session. These folks have been getting together on Saturday afternoons for 28 years. Ages ranged from 20s to 70s, and the lady playing the spoons was worth the price of admission (okay, it was free, but you get the point.)
We went back to look at the art museum by night: the new portion is totally lit up from inside and it looks like a floating iceberg on the dark hillside. A bitter wind kept M in the car, and D and I ran outside to take pix with her phone (mine being out of juice by then.)
Our final day was spent at the Jazz museum and a sports bar (for the AFL playoffs. Broncos won). The museum was at 18th and Vine, and included a video of the area history. There are actually two museums: the other is the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which only M visited. He said it was great. However, I was absorbed enough by the jazz museum, and D got her own free concert, courtesy of a janitor who was testing out the Blue Room piano. I spent a fair amount of time on the interactive displays that let you mix your own recording (shades of the Experience Music Project) and even more time in the area dedicated to old soundies. The problem there was that the three screens were within a very small space, and you could hear all three simultaneously, which meant you couldn't hear any of them well. It's an amazing collection, though.
After pizza, beer and football, they dropped me at Union Station. Almost everything was closed, so I went to the big screen theatre and watched Frozen (not in HD.) It was worth the $8 price tag, passed the time nicely, and gave me a chance to see a movie that none of my friends wanted to see. And now I read that one of the songs is up for an Academy Award, so I'm vaguely in the cultural loop. This is a good thing.
When I go back with V, I'll want to revisit the art museum and the BBQ joints, take in some music in the Blue Room, and check out the City Market in good weather. I'll also want to have dinner at the Savoy, and maybe spend a night or two. And I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time.
The Amtrak employee was around my age. She called everyone "hon," and her name was Cheryl. I had spoken with her on the phone, trying to get the scoop on the parking lot. The Amtrak page said "NO LONG TERM PARKING!" and that just didn't make sense. Yes, there's a shuttle (the details of which are well hidden), but surely I'm not the only person who doesn't want to make friends or family drive for an hour to this back-of-beyond place. She said, well, we don't officially provide parking, but the townsfolk keep an eye on things, and nothing has ever been vandalized. That was good enough for me. However, I was apparently still a little nervous. Just as the train came in I thought, "Did I remember to lock the car?" Fortunately, the station is so small, a few steps to the side brought me close enough to the car to point my key and click the lock button. The headlights flashed reassuringly, and I boarded the train.
The train takes 18 hours to get from Lamy to Kansas City. It's an enchanting ride through north eastern New Mexico, past Starvation Peak, through S bends where you can see the other end of the train, and across the prairies. Both times I've taken this train, the moon has been full. Both times I've curled up on my seat and dozed. Both times, I've been exhausted when I reached my destination.
Union Station in Kansas City is old and beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, tall decorated windows and echoing marble. The wood benches are gone from the old waiting room, which is a long hall in the middle of the station. The current waiting room is small and low-ceilinged, with glaring fluorescent lights and unlovely vending machines. I don't get it: why not use the perfectly good and beautiful old space?I arrived half an hour early, and M overslept, so I had breakfast at the Harvey restaurant (a nod to the old Harvey House, I gather.) The atmosphere was lovely: Judy Garland et al on the sound system, a circular covered structure in the middle of the lobby, dark wooden chairs and long tablecloths. I had really bad coffee and mediocre eggs and limp bacon. I could taste the oleo butter substitute. Erk.
Then M arrived and we drove back through the freeways to the Drury Hotel, out east on I70, across from the two sports arenas. Kansas City's downtown is encircled by a rounded rectangle of interstates, with state highways paralleling and intersecting. I couldn't tell if there was a reasonable public transport system, but we needed the GPS the entire time we were there. The maps didn't make sense, nor did the exits. D, who did most of the programming, said, "Trust the voice," and eventually we did. As a passenger, I never did figure out the topography. But it was typical of midwest river towns: the freeways soared through off-white sandstone bluffs and bottom lands filled with thin scrubby trees. The U district featured 2-story brick houses with wrap-around stone porches and the occasional porte cochere. Other districts had wood frame houses with wrought iron railings leading up to the concrete stoop at the screened front door.
It was cold and wintry, and I felt right at home.
When I got to my room, I was ready to crash for a bit. But, I'd called V from the train the afternoon before and this was the moment she called back: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" She was scratching her head a bit: while KC has apparently been on her list for the last 10 years, since the art museum built its addition, I had never indicated an interest. I said, I'm here to listen to a reputedly wonderful blue guitarist from Canada, and to visit the art museum. (And, as it turned out, to eat excellent BBQ.) She said, if you were going to wander on your days off, why not visit me in Phoenix, it's 70 degrees here. (It was 20 degrees in KC.) I promised to do some reconnaissance and come back with her when it was warmer.
We hung up, and the phone rang again. This time it was my sister E: "What were you doing in Raton?" I had posted a sunset picture of Raton station on Facebook: it was a smoking/fresh-air-break point. Apparently it is also a destination for gun aficionados, and she had received some excellent pointers when she and D stopped by en route to California. I explained again, and I could feel her shrug. Well, as long as you're okay, keep me posted. And we hung up.Then I checked FB, and there was a message from JMR: "What are you doing in Kansas City?" I wrote back, listening to blues and eating BBQ, and then I went to bed.
D was not feeling well, so we left her to rest while we visited the City Market and the Arabia Steamboat Museum, which was located just off the Market. The outdoor part of the market is the main draw: booths and dancing and music and crafts, none of which are in evidence during the winter months. The market is ringed by permanent shops and vendors, all of which close around 2:30 pm. So, we focused on the Museum, which was quite enthralling. Apparently, the Arabia had run into a snag, back in the 1850s and by the next day was sunk into the mud and murk of the Missouri River. Salvage apparently wasn't possible right then, and the insurance paid around $10,500. In the 1980's the Hawley family and friends excavated the ship: the river had been shifted half a mile away and they were digging in a cornfield with pumps going non-stop to keep the ground water out. The original intent was to sell the salvage, but instead it is in this fascinating museum, providing a unique window into pre-Civil War life.
We went with Jack Stack, and I flirted with the 30-something waiter. Clearly, I'm feeling better about myself.
The concert was at Knuckleheads Saloon, a ramshackle collection of indoor and outdoor spaces hidden away in an industrial district. The Voice sent us around a General Mills factory and over the railroad tracks, and we ended up in a gravel lot catty-corner from the bar. There was a lot of neon (my favorite proclaimed "no pissy attitudes allowed"), and plastic sheeting surrounded the outdoor venues. Our venue was an intimate (read TINY) space, with some tables in the center, backless stools around the perimeter, and a small area with rows of seats off to the side. We settled to the left of the entrance. Ages were mixed, but most of the tables in the "spray zone" were filled with older couples. A row of rowdy plaid-shirted young men and women sat across the back, nearby. I would have been annoyed, but they clearly got the excellence of the performer, once he arrived, and it became part of the scene.
Matt Andersen is an ENORMOUS young man, with long scraggly red hair which he tosses back at intervals. A wispy moustache sits above a cherry bud mouth from which a gravelly voice issues, and he wore the plaid shirt and jeans that are apparently his trademark, as he made mention of it during one of his intro monologues. He was totally worth the trip: could play the hell out of the guitar, and could also introduce subtleties. I can see why M was impressed by him when he won the International Blues Competition a few years back. I'd see him again.
Afterwards, we checked out the cover band in the larger venue, but were unimpressed.
The next day was dedicated to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. They were featuring French Impressionists and photographers, and I could spend several days here. The special exhibit was a mere $7, and the rest was free if we so chose. As usual, I got pulled in several different directions. The Asian art is pretty amazing, I was enthralled by the Islamic art, and there is a room dedicated to Thomas Hart Benton, whom I studied in college. (It makes sense that he would be featured: he was a Regionalist and settled in Kansas City at the KC Art Institute.)
We spent 4 hours and then met another of Mike's online friends at BB's Lawnside. D ordered a BBQ sundae, which was all about the presentation: pulled pork, beans and cole slaw layered in a glass. It was tasty enough, but not enough pulled pork: word to the wise. I got burnt ends, which were new to me and quite wonderful: all the taste and texture of ribs without gnawing on the bones. However, the whole point of the place is the party atmosphere. Live music is the name of the game, and there are no tables for two. The bar is at one end, and the stage at the other, while in between are ranged long narrow picnic tables covered in red and white checked plastic table cloths. We were lucky enough to find four chairs together, two on each side, in the middle of the table farthest from the door and music. The noise was deafening. Our waitress took advantage of a brief lull to get our orders, but there was no conversation for some time. The music was so-so, but it was neat because it was a jam session. These folks have been getting together on Saturday afternoons for 28 years. Ages ranged from 20s to 70s, and the lady playing the spoons was worth the price of admission (okay, it was free, but you get the point.)
We went back to look at the art museum by night: the new portion is totally lit up from inside and it looks like a floating iceberg on the dark hillside. A bitter wind kept M in the car, and D and I ran outside to take pix with her phone (mine being out of juice by then.)
Our final day was spent at the Jazz museum and a sports bar (for the AFL playoffs. Broncos won). The museum was at 18th and Vine, and included a video of the area history. There are actually two museums: the other is the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which only M visited. He said it was great. However, I was absorbed enough by the jazz museum, and D got her own free concert, courtesy of a janitor who was testing out the Blue Room piano. I spent a fair amount of time on the interactive displays that let you mix your own recording (shades of the Experience Music Project) and even more time in the area dedicated to old soundies. The problem there was that the three screens were within a very small space, and you could hear all three simultaneously, which meant you couldn't hear any of them well. It's an amazing collection, though.
After pizza, beer and football, they dropped me at Union Station. Almost everything was closed, so I went to the big screen theatre and watched Frozen (not in HD.) It was worth the $8 price tag, passed the time nicely, and gave me a chance to see a movie that none of my friends wanted to see. And now I read that one of the songs is up for an Academy Award, so I'm vaguely in the cultural loop. This is a good thing.
When I go back with V, I'll want to revisit the art museum and the BBQ joints, take in some music in the Blue Room, and check out the City Market in good weather. I'll also want to have dinner at the Savoy, and maybe spend a night or two. And I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
There isn't a train I wouldn't take...
I just got back from a long weekend in Kansas City. I took the same train (California Zephyr) that I took a year ago to visit family over Christmas, but this time I left from Lamy station instead of Albuquerque. And I didn't have T texting me the whole way, watching the train's progress via webcam. I was alone.
For the most part, that works for me. I like travelling alone.
I settle in my seat, spread my stuff into surrounding areas and work on solitary pursuits like reading and knitting and crosswords.
If you travel with another person, you have the advantage of leaving your stuff in their custody when you go to the lounge car or the bathroom, but you also have to negotiate the seats: window or aisle? And, when I flew with D, I always ended up in the middle seat. (I could see the dismay on the other travelers' faces when we came down the aisle: "Please, don't let those porkers sit next to me!!!")
I did miss T's virtual presence, which didn't require seat negotiations and kept me company, but I was otherwise happy with my lot. It's a beautiful ride, up north and east through Las Vegas and Raton, into Colorado along the old Santa Fe trail, and across Kansas during the dark hours, where the moon illuminates the prairie and the lights of empty towns and solitary farms flash by to the click of the rails and dopplering of train whistles.
The train parallels
The fabled Santa Fe trail;
A dusty dirt road.
My knitting has progressed to the point where I can watch scenery while I work. Right now I'm knitting baby booties for K: her baby is due in March. I actually have 4 projects going: the booties, 2 belated Christmas presents, and the top I started after my knitting bag was stolen from my car last summer, along with an almost-completed year-long project.
(I'm still pissed about that.)
This is how I used to travel. When I first moved out west, I took my violin, a trunk, a suitcase, and a daypack. I spent a lot of time in the lounge car, and I still wonder what happened to Lane Turner, an 18-year-old who was en route to California. We watched Wyoming go by, and I asked him how many people joked about his name (too many, but it's why I still remember it.)
When I traveled through Sweden with A, I was knitting a green sweater with a horizontal white stripe. I think S has it? I learned that a dollar bill is exactly 6 inches long, so I used that to measure my progress. Meanwhile, A read and got a kick out of the 10-year-old boy reading Animorphs: he was so typical.
I remember my first European train trip, right after I graduated from college. B and I each had a Eurail pass, and we spent a lot of time sleeping in the 6-person carriages. I remember traveling through Switzerland, being kissed by a young Iranian with no English. (He had the wrong idea.) I remember that B had her tripod strapped across the top of her frame pack, and it stuck out just far enough that she had to wrestle it along the narrow aisles. My in-frame pack was easier to manage on trains, but harder on the back for the long hauls to the hostels. I remember how great it was to pull out the seats and actually stretch out to sleep. I remember climbing into an upper berth, the ceiling inches away. I was shuddering with claustrophobia. I remember the beautiful trip through Norway, from Oslo ferry to Bergen: they stopped at the peak for pictures, and then we followed a silver-grey fjord to the coast. But the seats were wooden and upright and on the way back we ran out of Norwegian Kroner and were starving until we reached the ferry buffet. I remember taking the train out to Helsingor: B traveled with Gastarbeiter in the smoking car, the air of which was literally blue.
I don't know about Europe, but in the U.S. you can no longer smoke on board, and that has hugely improved the trip. I remember passing through the smoking cars to get to the lounge: the fug clung to my hair and stuffed up my nose in just a few short seconds. And the lounge car always had smoke on one level, which migrated to the other level.
There are other changes. 20 years after my first European trip, I took a train through England, Wales, and Scotland and discovered, to my dismay, that I could no longer leave my packs in the stations while I explored the cities. Curse those terrorist bombers! Because I was moving from mountains to coast to flat-lands to mountains again over the course of a month, I had two huge packs, loaded onto wheels. They jounced along the cobbles, and I had to constantly monitor the upper pack, which had a tendency to fall off. I wheeled those packs through cathedrals, along narrow climbing streets, into crowded restaurants, and over the gap unto the trains. I knew I was no longer a 20-something traveler when the lads with ear and nose piercings helped me with my bags and called me ma'am. They had a vested interest in helping me - I was holding up the line - but I think they were raised right, too.
I'm trying to remember how many train rides I've taken. While I rented a car through Australia, I also took the train down the Sunshine coast and up into the Blue Mountains. Same with traveling through England and Ireland, Italy and France. There was always some point where I left companions and cars and made my way alone, on the train. And, I often took the plane into Chicago, during Christmas, visited friends there, and then took the train down to my family.
Usually I travel coach, but I've discovered the beauty of the sleeper. You can shower and stretch out, and your ticket includes the dining car meals and morning newspaper. When I was traveling from Italy to France, I set aside 4000 lira to upgrade to a sleeper, but couldn't find it, so I had to sleep in a very crowded carriage. I had this tendency to stash money in different bags and pockets so if I was robbed I had a fighting chance of saving some of it. But then I'd forget where I'd put it. I found the lira when I was unpacking back in the States and mailed it out to my friend A, who had hosted me in Rome and still had several months left on her Fullbright. It was approximately $70 at that time, I think.
So, I've only experienced the sleeper once. Back in early 2000, I took a package deal: fly out to North Carolina to see my cousin's master's thesis (an art installation) and train back via DC (E and M), Chicago, family in downstate IL (N's high school graduation), and then along the Lewis and Clark trail back to PDX. I traveled coach the first legs....somewhere between DC and Chicago they had to take a drunk off the train. How cliche is that? But it was an anomaly, too. Usually the folks on the train are socially acceptable. *
I had a sleeper for the last part of the trip, and if I had the money, that's what I'd do now. I have discovered that, while my brain is still 22 in terms of planning and executing my trips, my body no longer bounces back as it once did. My back does better now, but I just get exhausted. It's time to be an adult: lose the backpacks and travel in comfort.
In addition to logistical changes, I have also discovered that, without companions, I tend to not interact so much with my fellow travelers. I don't know how much of that is due to the ever-present virtual communication, though. As I pass through the carriages, everyone who is not sleeping is nose-deep into the electronics. Even in the lounge car, people watch the scenery, earbuds insulating them from the conversations around them.
And I am guilty too. I text with friends, post pix and haiku to Facebook, check my e-mail. In the past, I journaled during the train rides. I don't know which is better, to share as you go, or to introspect. Years later, I'm still reading those journals. Will I still be checking my Facebook entries? Probably not.
Still, I find that travel is when I do my best thinking. During that trip to NC, I was dating 2 men, and I didn't know that I wanted to date either of them. I used the trip to escape them and figure myself out. It didn't work: they both phoned me incessantly, and I still remember lying in my berth, watching the moon rise over the snowy Dakota fields while I talked with K and told him I missed him, and then talked with D and told him I missed him too. And it was true in both cases, but what I really missed was my self-respect and comfortable life. I still miss those things.
*Addendum:
Shortly after I wrote this blog, one of the friends I visited in DC posted the following to Facebook. I guess my DC drunk was not such an anomaly after all:
E: "I am a Roman numeral carved in plastic," said the poet sitting next to me on the train.
M: I think I'd avoid that car next time.
E: No, he was pleasant and random.
C: Which numeral? V? C?
For the most part, that works for me. I like travelling alone.
I settle in my seat, spread my stuff into surrounding areas and work on solitary pursuits like reading and knitting and crosswords.
If you travel with another person, you have the advantage of leaving your stuff in their custody when you go to the lounge car or the bathroom, but you also have to negotiate the seats: window or aisle? And, when I flew with D, I always ended up in the middle seat. (I could see the dismay on the other travelers' faces when we came down the aisle: "Please, don't let those porkers sit next to me!!!")
I did miss T's virtual presence, which didn't require seat negotiations and kept me company, but I was otherwise happy with my lot. It's a beautiful ride, up north and east through Las Vegas and Raton, into Colorado along the old Santa Fe trail, and across Kansas during the dark hours, where the moon illuminates the prairie and the lights of empty towns and solitary farms flash by to the click of the rails and dopplering of train whistles. The train parallels
The fabled Santa Fe trail;
A dusty dirt road.
I love train rides, but
They don't stop for photo ops.
Still, I do my best.
They don't stop for photo ops.
Still, I do my best.
My knitting has progressed to the point where I can watch scenery while I work. Right now I'm knitting baby booties for K: her baby is due in March. I actually have 4 projects going: the booties, 2 belated Christmas presents, and the top I started after my knitting bag was stolen from my car last summer, along with an almost-completed year-long project.
Crafty car burglars
Steal my unfinished knitting.
It will not fit them.
This is how I used to travel. When I first moved out west, I took my violin, a trunk, a suitcase, and a daypack. I spent a lot of time in the lounge car, and I still wonder what happened to Lane Turner, an 18-year-old who was en route to California. We watched Wyoming go by, and I asked him how many people joked about his name (too many, but it's why I still remember it.)
When I traveled through Sweden with A, I was knitting a green sweater with a horizontal white stripe. I think S has it? I learned that a dollar bill is exactly 6 inches long, so I used that to measure my progress. Meanwhile, A read and got a kick out of the 10-year-old boy reading Animorphs: he was so typical.
I remember my first European train trip, right after I graduated from college. B and I each had a Eurail pass, and we spent a lot of time sleeping in the 6-person carriages. I remember traveling through Switzerland, being kissed by a young Iranian with no English. (He had the wrong idea.) I remember that B had her tripod strapped across the top of her frame pack, and it stuck out just far enough that she had to wrestle it along the narrow aisles. My in-frame pack was easier to manage on trains, but harder on the back for the long hauls to the hostels. I remember how great it was to pull out the seats and actually stretch out to sleep. I remember climbing into an upper berth, the ceiling inches away. I was shuddering with claustrophobia. I remember the beautiful trip through Norway, from Oslo ferry to Bergen: they stopped at the peak for pictures, and then we followed a silver-grey fjord to the coast. But the seats were wooden and upright and on the way back we ran out of Norwegian Kroner and were starving until we reached the ferry buffet. I remember taking the train out to Helsingor: B traveled with Gastarbeiter in the smoking car, the air of which was literally blue.
I don't know about Europe, but in the U.S. you can no longer smoke on board, and that has hugely improved the trip. I remember passing through the smoking cars to get to the lounge: the fug clung to my hair and stuffed up my nose in just a few short seconds. And the lounge car always had smoke on one level, which migrated to the other level.
There are other changes. 20 years after my first European trip, I took a train through England, Wales, and Scotland and discovered, to my dismay, that I could no longer leave my packs in the stations while I explored the cities. Curse those terrorist bombers! Because I was moving from mountains to coast to flat-lands to mountains again over the course of a month, I had two huge packs, loaded onto wheels. They jounced along the cobbles, and I had to constantly monitor the upper pack, which had a tendency to fall off. I wheeled those packs through cathedrals, along narrow climbing streets, into crowded restaurants, and over the gap unto the trains. I knew I was no longer a 20-something traveler when the lads with ear and nose piercings helped me with my bags and called me ma'am. They had a vested interest in helping me - I was holding up the line - but I think they were raised right, too.
I'm trying to remember how many train rides I've taken. While I rented a car through Australia, I also took the train down the Sunshine coast and up into the Blue Mountains. Same with traveling through England and Ireland, Italy and France. There was always some point where I left companions and cars and made my way alone, on the train. And, I often took the plane into Chicago, during Christmas, visited friends there, and then took the train down to my family.
Usually I travel coach, but I've discovered the beauty of the sleeper. You can shower and stretch out, and your ticket includes the dining car meals and morning newspaper. When I was traveling from Italy to France, I set aside 4000 lira to upgrade to a sleeper, but couldn't find it, so I had to sleep in a very crowded carriage. I had this tendency to stash money in different bags and pockets so if I was robbed I had a fighting chance of saving some of it. But then I'd forget where I'd put it. I found the lira when I was unpacking back in the States and mailed it out to my friend A, who had hosted me in Rome and still had several months left on her Fullbright. It was approximately $70 at that time, I think.
So, I've only experienced the sleeper once. Back in early 2000, I took a package deal: fly out to North Carolina to see my cousin's master's thesis (an art installation) and train back via DC (E and M), Chicago, family in downstate IL (N's high school graduation), and then along the Lewis and Clark trail back to PDX. I traveled coach the first legs....somewhere between DC and Chicago they had to take a drunk off the train. How cliche is that? But it was an anomaly, too. Usually the folks on the train are socially acceptable. *
I had a sleeper for the last part of the trip, and if I had the money, that's what I'd do now. I have discovered that, while my brain is still 22 in terms of planning and executing my trips, my body no longer bounces back as it once did. My back does better now, but I just get exhausted. It's time to be an adult: lose the backpacks and travel in comfort.
In addition to logistical changes, I have also discovered that, without companions, I tend to not interact so much with my fellow travelers. I don't know how much of that is due to the ever-present virtual communication, though. As I pass through the carriages, everyone who is not sleeping is nose-deep into the electronics. Even in the lounge car, people watch the scenery, earbuds insulating them from the conversations around them.
And I am guilty too. I text with friends, post pix and haiku to Facebook, check my e-mail. In the past, I journaled during the train rides. I don't know which is better, to share as you go, or to introspect. Years later, I'm still reading those journals. Will I still be checking my Facebook entries? Probably not.
Still, I find that travel is when I do my best thinking. During that trip to NC, I was dating 2 men, and I didn't know that I wanted to date either of them. I used the trip to escape them and figure myself out. It didn't work: they both phoned me incessantly, and I still remember lying in my berth, watching the moon rise over the snowy Dakota fields while I talked with K and told him I missed him, and then talked with D and told him I missed him too. And it was true in both cases, but what I really missed was my self-respect and comfortable life. I still miss those things.
*Addendum:
Shortly after I wrote this blog, one of the friends I visited in DC posted the following to Facebook. I guess my DC drunk was not such an anomaly after all:
E: "I am a Roman numeral carved in plastic," said the poet sitting next to me on the train.
M: I think I'd avoid that car next time.
E: No, he was pleasant and random.
C: Which numeral? V? C?
E: He was fixated on 7-11 and 6th and H. When I could make out what he was saying.
M: Well, at least that was better than sitting in a train on a NM/CO run, and having a fellow come up the aisle announcing to all that there was a bomb on the train. (About 4 years ago, as I recall.) I think we made record time to the next stop, at which the police were waiting for him. There was no bomb.....But he was certainly disconcerting to be around.
Refgoddess: M-, I've taken that route twice....you have all the fun!
M: You may call it fun. It was even worse for the people who had been in the club car...this nut case said he had heard a couple of guys say they had placed the bomb there and then they got off the train at, I think it was Trinidad...those folks were herded back to our cars.....I don't know if he was on something, or if he was schizo but ....well, it was an adventure. We made it to La Junta almost an hour early. No dawdling on that stretch!
Refgoddess: M-, I've taken that route twice....you have all the fun!
M: You may call it fun. It was even worse for the people who had been in the club car...this nut case said he had heard a couple of guys say they had placed the bomb there and then they got off the train at, I think it was Trinidad...those folks were herded back to our cars.....I don't know if he was on something, or if he was schizo but ....well, it was an adventure. We made it to La Junta almost an hour early. No dawdling on that stretch!
Friday, January 10, 2014
Introverts
I was talking with an introvert friend the other day. My understanding is that the term is all about where you get your energy: from solitude or from other people. Or, conversely, it's all about what drains your energy.
We were talking about this because I'm very lonely, and I don't know what to do with that. Yes, I know I've written about this a LOT, but it's still rearing its ugly head. People don't have time for me and I feel rejected, but I can't blame them. I feel unattractive and unnecessary. I don't want to force my unhappy self on other people, but I don't want to be alone either. I have heard all my life that, to be attractive or lovable, you have to love yourself. I still don't know what that means. It's almost like blaming the victim: it's your own damn fault no one wants to be around you. Well, gee, that makes me feel a whole lot better. So....all I have to do is take my unlovable self and be confident that my unlovable self is really lovable? How does that alchemy work?
So, I started thinking about personality traits. What is it about me that can be attractive? What makes me want to get up in the morning and live in my skin? How do I build self-confidence? Is it something innate, or something that can be created? And thus, back to the question of extroversion vs introversion.
One would think that confidence is part of being an extrovert, but lovability is clearly not restricted to the extroverts. My friend is very lovable, after all. And extroverts can just be annoying sometimes. They seem to be all about self. In fact, I remember editing an article by an introvert customer service person. It was illuminating: the thesis was that you often provide better service if you are an introvert, because you take yourself out of the equation and really focus on the other person. There is no bigger attractant than someone's undivided attention.
However, that doesn't seem to be the answer, either. Here's what thesaurus.com has to say about introverts:
noun: person who retreats mentally
Is it possible to be part introvert, part extrovert? On my OkCupid profile, I claim to be a closet introvert. Most people think of me as an extrovert, but years of working with the public drained my energy, and I needed vast amounts of alone time to replenish. Now, however, I have all the alone time I could ask for, and I still seem to be fatigued, and I still want to hole up in my room. I'm trying to figure out if it's a mental or physical issue.
I am looking up
Symptoms of diabetes.
I have half of them.
We were talking about this because I'm very lonely, and I don't know what to do with that. Yes, I know I've written about this a LOT, but it's still rearing its ugly head. People don't have time for me and I feel rejected, but I can't blame them. I feel unattractive and unnecessary. I don't want to force my unhappy self on other people, but I don't want to be alone either. I have heard all my life that, to be attractive or lovable, you have to love yourself. I still don't know what that means. It's almost like blaming the victim: it's your own damn fault no one wants to be around you. Well, gee, that makes me feel a whole lot better. So....all I have to do is take my unlovable self and be confident that my unlovable self is really lovable? How does that alchemy work?
So, I started thinking about personality traits. What is it about me that can be attractive? What makes me want to get up in the morning and live in my skin? How do I build self-confidence? Is it something innate, or something that can be created? And thus, back to the question of extroversion vs introversion.
One would think that confidence is part of being an extrovert, but lovability is clearly not restricted to the extroverts. My friend is very lovable, after all. And extroverts can just be annoying sometimes. They seem to be all about self. In fact, I remember editing an article by an introvert customer service person. It was illuminating: the thesis was that you often provide better service if you are an introvert, because you take yourself out of the equation and really focus on the other person. There is no bigger attractant than someone's undivided attention.
However, that doesn't seem to be the answer, either. Here's what thesaurus.com has to say about introverts:
noun: person who retreats mentally
- wallflower
- brooder
- egoist
- egotist
- loner
- narcissist
- solitary
Wow. How do you go from being solitary to being a narcissist? I would never have thought an introvert was an egotist. On the other hand, a brooder does have that tendency.
Quietly watching
Clouds rolling in, birds flitting.
Am I brooding?
Extroverts don't sound great, either, though:
noun: sociable person (okay, that's nice) but.....
- character
- exhibitionist
- show-off
- showboat
- gregarious person
- life of the party
There seem to be some similar traits in the two lists: egotism and showing-off for example. Both are exceedingly unattractive. However, the synonyms certainly point out the bias in favor of extroverts. I think most people would find a sociable person to be more attractive than one who retreats mentally. And there just isn't much in the introvert list that you'd want to be around.
And now I think I understand my problem. I AM an introvert. I need to be solitary, to think (brood if you will), to figure things out. And that is unattractive to a large part of our culture. So, my game face is that of an extrovert. And that is unattractive to me.
It's time to turn my back on the whole thing and remember what my friend A said, in the aftermath of her divorce to a charismatic, arrogantly brilliant scholar. The very things that attracted her to him were the things that made him unlivable, not to mention unlovable. And she retreated to a Henry James quote: "Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind."
And the kindness has to be to myself, as well.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
The Vagabond Consultant
A friend asked me how to pare down possessions. Voila! I am now considered an expert! Truly, all experiences are building blocks for the next adventure. And what a wild and wacky structure is this thing we call a life.
Perhaps I will become a Vagabond Consultant in my new life. However, this blueprint is free to my readers. Enjoy!
First, you must work on your mindset. Paring down possessions must be a thing of necessity. Moving several times is the easiest way to do it. Once things are in boxes they become invisible. And, once they have been in boxes for over 6 months, they become unnecessary. The trick is to put them in the boxes saying, "I don't need these right now." Then, DON'T OPEN THE BOX! 6 months later, you take the unopened box to Goodwill and walk away with your receipt.
If you are not moving, you may not have the impetus to box things up. In that case, you need to find something else to give that necessary shove. Whatever your motivation, it needs to feel urgent and imminent. Do you have a new career that requires an office space? Do you need the money that renting a room would generate? Is your mother coming to live with you? Are you going to live with her?
These would be positive ways to effect the change. Or at any rate, they are proactive responses to life events like retirement, aging, unemployment. However, sometimes you just snap. You quit your job, you divorce your partner, you have a breakdown. (In my case, you do all three.) In these cases, the temptation is to walk away. And that is a viable alternative. But most of us don't have what it takes to walk away from a life, which is what the possessions represent. Sooner or later, you'll need to deal with possessions as well as emotions.
All this is just to say, you need the motivation. Just feeling overwhelmed by "stuff" is not enough. For 10 years, I wanted to create a studio and de-clutter my life. But the motivation was not there. Other projects always took priority. There never seemed to be enough time, even after I was laid off. Also, some of the stuff was not mine. There was a powerful push-back from D, who has hoarding in his blood. He wanted to keep things and to acquire more.
So, the other thing you need to do is get stakeholders on board. You must motivate others as well as yourself.
Finally, once you've established the mindset and coerced or jettisoned recalcitrant partners, you need to accept a basic fact: this will all take a lot more time, energy, and determination than you expect. It's taken me 2 years to reach my current state of living in one small room, and I'm not done yet.
Herewith, my trajectory.
First, you must work on your mindset. Paring down possessions must be a thing of necessity. Moving several times is the easiest way to do it. Once things are in boxes they become invisible. And, once they have been in boxes for over 6 months, they become unnecessary. The trick is to put them in the boxes saying, "I don't need these right now." Then, DON'T OPEN THE BOX! 6 months later, you take the unopened box to Goodwill and walk away with your receipt.
If you are not moving, you may not have the impetus to box things up. In that case, you need to find something else to give that necessary shove. Whatever your motivation, it needs to feel urgent and imminent. Do you have a new career that requires an office space? Do you need the money that renting a room would generate? Is your mother coming to live with you? Are you going to live with her?
These would be positive ways to effect the change. Or at any rate, they are proactive responses to life events like retirement, aging, unemployment. However, sometimes you just snap. You quit your job, you divorce your partner, you have a breakdown. (In my case, you do all three.) In these cases, the temptation is to walk away. And that is a viable alternative. But most of us don't have what it takes to walk away from a life, which is what the possessions represent. Sooner or later, you'll need to deal with possessions as well as emotions.
All this is just to say, you need the motivation. Just feeling overwhelmed by "stuff" is not enough. For 10 years, I wanted to create a studio and de-clutter my life. But the motivation was not there. Other projects always took priority. There never seemed to be enough time, even after I was laid off. Also, some of the stuff was not mine. There was a powerful push-back from D, who has hoarding in his blood. He wanted to keep things and to acquire more.
So, the other thing you need to do is get stakeholders on board. You must motivate others as well as yourself.
Finally, once you've established the mindset and coerced or jettisoned recalcitrant partners, you need to accept a basic fact: this will all take a lot more time, energy, and determination than you expect. It's taken me 2 years to reach my current state of living in one small room, and I'm not done yet.
Herewith, my trajectory.
I was unable to pay the mortgage in my Portland house, so I decided to rent the upstairs. That meant removing 50% of our possessions. I had an estate sale and netted around $900, including the piano. I pulled out the stuff I wanted to keep and put it in one room and left town while the estate sale professional took care of the rest. There were some casualties, of course, and some under-priced things, but it was done.
A few months later I got a job and moved to ABQ. I boxed up the books. One box came with me, 2 more were to come with friends, and the rest were to go in the attic. I did the same with dishes, craft supplies, memorabilia, clothes, CDs, DVDs, art. Some came with me, most was boxed up. Furniture was either used by tenants or put in the studio/shed. It was both harder and easier than the estate sale. What was left was stuff I wanted to keep (hard), but I wasn't telling myself that it was going away for good (easy).
When I returned a year later, knowing that I was going to sell the house and remain in a small apartment in NM, I put most of the memorabilia in my aunt's garage, along with some family furniture (like the immigrant trunk and grandma's spinning wheel.) The dishes and art went into other friends' basements, and I mailed clothes and some memorabilia to myself. I did not open up the boxed books, but the rest I did, and that was agony.
Some friends took a few things. The books went to Goodwill. Some furniture is still sitting around the house, awaiting disposal. And, of course, D had retrieved his boxes, which constituted a good half of the stuff.
I still have to deal with the stuff in basements. First, I must accept that I'm a vagabond. Then I will ask my friends to have a yard sale or bring my stuff to Goodwill or sell it on Craigslist. And I'll have my aunt send letters and journals and pix: a box a month. I'll scan them and then dispose of them.
It's a mind game process, for sure. But it's well worth it. I just spent the weekend in ABQ, in my old casita/studio apt. It felt so Zen, empty of all the stuff I had crammed into it. That's where I want to be, eventually. Possessions just make me tired.
A few months later I got a job and moved to ABQ. I boxed up the books. One box came with me, 2 more were to come with friends, and the rest were to go in the attic. I did the same with dishes, craft supplies, memorabilia, clothes, CDs, DVDs, art. Some came with me, most was boxed up. Furniture was either used by tenants or put in the studio/shed. It was both harder and easier than the estate sale. What was left was stuff I wanted to keep (hard), but I wasn't telling myself that it was going away for good (easy).
When I returned a year later, knowing that I was going to sell the house and remain in a small apartment in NM, I put most of the memorabilia in my aunt's garage, along with some family furniture (like the immigrant trunk and grandma's spinning wheel.) The dishes and art went into other friends' basements, and I mailed clothes and some memorabilia to myself. I did not open up the boxed books, but the rest I did, and that was agony.
Some friends took a few things. The books went to Goodwill. Some furniture is still sitting around the house, awaiting disposal. And, of course, D had retrieved his boxes, which constituted a good half of the stuff.
I still have to deal with the stuff in basements. First, I must accept that I'm a vagabond. Then I will ask my friends to have a yard sale or bring my stuff to Goodwill or sell it on Craigslist. And I'll have my aunt send letters and journals and pix: a box a month. I'll scan them and then dispose of them.
It's a mind game process, for sure. But it's well worth it. I just spent the weekend in ABQ, in my old casita/studio apt. It felt so Zen, empty of all the stuff I had crammed into it. That's where I want to be, eventually. Possessions just make me tired.
Yes. I am a vagabond.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
The year in review
I went through my posts for the last year and picked a first line for each month. (There were no posts for July, probably because I was in Portland attending the Conclave, so I picked two for June.)
- I think the weather is bi-polar.
- Yesterday was full of contradictory emotions.
- Last night I dreamed I was at a class reunion.
- A few weeks ago my landlady invited me to an "endings" ritual, to punctuate my divorce, to honor the feelings and the past, and to look to the future.
- I spent the weekend at Ghost Ranch, hiking, meditating, reading, walking the labyrinth.
- On June 10, the forests will be closed.
- T has a theory about Bored Angels.
- Last night I attended a performance of the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival, one of their four Albuquerque run-outs.
- Last night I was in my landlord's kitchen, scooping out chocolate ice cream.
- Today is my last day of government employment.
- I woke up in Albuquerque and drove home in the dawn.
- I am so lucky.
Yes, that's what the year was like.
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