Virtuality

I know this is nothing new, but I've been thinking about connections and the Internet and my choices. Being sick has something to do with it: I have nothing to do but force liquids and process thoughts.  The thoughts are routine, as are the conclusions.  I am learning nothing, creating nothing worth communicating.  But, the urge to communicate, to write, and to share doesn't care about quality.  That urge is about connection, and it will not be denied.

 

We are so disconnected, with our virtual lives.  We can't sing together over Facebook, we can't hug.  Emoticons don't sound like love or hurt or joy or righteous indignation.  Clicking on an email envelope icon does not have that lovely crackly sound or give that feeling of anticipation. The email travels instantaneously over the airwaves, not through the air, through hands, through human agency. There is no planning, no effort in its transmission.  It is usually about news, and it is usually created casually, impersonally.  It is not savored over a cup of tea or saved in a bureau drawer. 

 

Of course, no form of letter takes the place of personal connection.  But something tactile is so much better than something electronic. I've re-learned since SC was incarcerated what a treat it is to open my mailbox and find a letter instead of bills.  It's like a birthday present, like chocolate, like hearing a favorite song, like Carbon greeting me at the door.  Like love.  I do miss going out to the mailbox with the expectation that something wonderful is waiting for me.  And I have started writing letters in order to give that pleasure to others. SC cannot get email, and E doesn't remember to, but I'm sending letters to others as well.

 

Don't get me wrong:  I'm immensely grateful for the immediacy of the virtual connection.  I don't feel so alone when I see a name on a post or a note in my inbox. This past week, when I have been so ill, the Internet has been my lifeline.  I check for messages.  I post photos and haiku complaints and receive pity and good wishes in return. I text V, asking for a grocery run, and she brings me home-made chicken soup as well.  So, the virtual connection keeps me from total isolation and, in a lot of ways, the sound bite nature of it works better for my energy levels. My responses can be written quickly and I don't have to worry about my penmanship.

 

In fact, I wonder if I really do miss the physical connection?  As I mentioned in a previous post, living with E taught me that I am indeed an introvert.  I have fought all my life against the deep exhaustion I feel when the inertia of staying in pulls against the desire to be social.  It's like trying to pick up a cat that doesn't want to be picked up.  It's heavy with resistance, limbs and head hanging lifelessly, almost impossible to move.  So, I have scheduled myself and made commitments to force the issue.  The consequence seems to be that  I  regularly get sick and collapse.  I didn't get this extended sickness the whole time I was with E.  It might be because I wasn't working with the public then, but I think it's because I need stay home with my books and my music and my time wasters.  A 40-hour traditional public-contact work week is anathema.  How much of my physical response is caused by depression, I do not know.  I don't feel depressed:   I am aware of serenity and sometimes joy.  The discontent seems to come more from the "shoulds" than my actual feelings.  I "should" be active and productive and social and creative.  I "should" get out and exercise.  I know that I'll be glad I did.  But I felt those "shoulds" up on the mountain, too.  Was it because my activities had to be severely limited and rationed that they did not overwhelm me?  Was it because my normal day was spent cooking and eating and doing crosswords?  E at 99 was more active than I at 55.

 

There is the contradiction. I like being alone.  But I miss my friends.  I like zoning out with my knitting and my pictures and my books and (god help me) my Netflix reruns.  But I miss the activities and connections.  In fact, I recently received a text from S, who is visiting Portland with his Seattle girlfriend, and I peppered him with names of restaurants and theatre groups.  It was so hard to decide which to fit into one short weekend.  I was so excited for them! I was virtually with them, and it felt great, but....lonely.

 

I don't know why I don't just move back to Portland and my tribe, but somehow all my choices keep me here with the dry air and the circle of juniper-clad hills, with the huge bowl of sky upended over the sage-filled fields.  Early in this week of illness, I walked out to get the mail, and a raven soared silently overhead, huge blue-black wings outspread, each feather distinct. (Did it follow me from the campus? What is it trying to tell me?)

 

There was nothing in the box.

 

 

 

 

 

Measuring my life 17 syllables at a time

Every day, as I go through the routines, feel the feelings, see the sights, walk the walk and talk the talk, I find myself creating sound bite descriptions of the experience.  A new friend asked me if all my Facebook posts are haiku, and I said, well, some are pictures.  But, yes.  I decided long ago that my life was not worth posting, but maybe I could turn the banality into an exercise in creativity.  And, I have such a need to let people know I'm alive and kicking. I get such validation from the little comments and "likes."  Ah yes, I think, even my boring life means something to someone.  They care enough to say, yeah, I read that.  I know you're alive, and that knowledge makes me happy.

And, when I gather together a few weeks' worth of pix and haiku, I realize, yes, I did do something besides eat, sleep, wash dishes, and schlep books.

Many of my posts talk about the beauties of New Mexico.  Before I moved here, I knew I loved the high desert, with the big skies, amazing clouds, and fascinating rock formations.  But I didn't realize that this dusty old city, full of strip malls and chain link fences, would also be beautiful.  It's true that some neighborhoods are depressing, with the garbage and cars and dogs lurking behind fences, scattered on yards of orange-brown dirt.  But most feature southwest architecture and xeriscaping, cats and dogs, and friendly people.

The Sandias daily draw my eyes to the east. I walk around the neighborhood and watch the sun rising behind them, etching them against the lightening sky and staining the clouds pink and yellow. Driving home from work, I watch them change colour from magenta to blue-green-grey-brown. In the winter, I look for snowfall.  In the summer monsoons, I look for grey clouds and rainbows. Recently, I have found a hiking buddy, so I am walking into them, getting up close and personal. But they are always part of my day, whether I'm exploring them with my feet or my eyes.

To the west, I see the varying colors of the Bosque.  Right now, it's becoming greener and greener.  Earlier in the year, it was a hazy greyish white:  the cottonwoods without clothes.  In the fall it was lacy and golden.  But it's always a strip of wildness in the middle of the city.  A brown house-covered grassland rises beyond it, with an abrupt line where the houses end and the mesa begins, the dark rocks of extinct volcanoes punctuating the horizon, the sky above filled with clouds, or empty blue, the sunsets glowing with the pinks and goldens of a desert sky.

So here are the haiku that chronicle my environment....

Driving in to work....
View to the west: stripes!
Blue on top, then brown, then green.
Spring in the Bosque.

Driving home from rehearsal.....

The moon casts its glow.

I share it virtually

And feel so alone.

Going for my bi-weekly walk with J and E.....

In the time it takes

To find my camera phone

The clouds change colour.

Taking a picture of a cat on a stoop......

Oblivious (or

Indifferent) to humans,

Watching the sunrise.

My now-weekly hike with G....

Today's hike: boulders!

And juniper and cactus.

And just enough wind.

Doing laundry at a friend's house, sunset time, I take a picture of a delicate lacy tree shadow:

Pic from a freezing
Cold evening. Even walls
Are beautiful here.

Then there are the mishaps, frustrations, and joys of the day....

On my way to a meeting, in front of an intersection full of people.....
Stepping back, I fall,
Winded and supine. What will
The third mishap be?

Driving in to work......
Misuse of car roof:
I pick up coffee mug shards.
Will they cause flat tires?

Listening to Allclassical.org in my office....
Dancing inside and
Smiling outside, regardless.
The Royal Fireworks.

Starting my day.....
No fresh coffee left,
So I used yesterday's dregs.
Shopping avoidance.

Adrenalin rush....
Black coffee bean in the sink,
Looks like a cockroach.


I got up early
For a doctor appointment.
Now he's running late. :(

I juggle morning
Ablutions, housework, email:
Burnt toast smells so good.

Waiting for the next bulletin from E (yes, all is well)....
Does it help at all
To worry about others?
Healing thoughts to Don.

The job is a continuing struggle.  My coworkers are passive aggressive when they are not downright hostile, and my manager wants me to assert myself.  Not an unreasonable expectation, and I'm actually bewildered as to why it's so difficult to just say:  sorry that's the way it is.  Do it and stop kvetching.  But there are good days, and I tend to chronicle those

I spent 2 hours learning about this year's summer reading program, culminating in a 15 minute session learning how to make duct tape sheets.  Our teacher is the duct tape queen.  She was wearing a pocketed apron with ties, multi-colored and multi-patterned, very flexible and sturdy.  But all I could think was, does it breathe?
What I learned this week:
Cardinal rule of duct tape...
Do not rescue it.

(I doubt I'll ever
Have the patience to create
Things out of duct tape.)

In lieu of reference work (there is very little of that), I have started doing the other fun part of the job:  outreach and story times.  My co-workers are unimpressed and make sure to let me know it, but the kids and the teachers give me full props.


Sharing pop up books
With attentive third graders:
Focusing on joy.

I love my job, but
I'd really like to trade in
My coworkers. Now.

En route to work but
Contemplating an escape.
Adventure beckons!


Then, there is orchestra and music in general:  I am beginning to take advantage of the myriad concerts and opportunities, and I'm loving it.  Sometimes I go along, and sometimes I bring a friend.  Always, it's a joy.

Our conductor is endlessly amusing:  he loves the music and tries to convey it, but he also gets that we're amateurs, and he does so with grace.  
Humane conducting:
"Strings, adapt....they need to breathe."
Sounds reasonable.

My stand partner wrote
"Terror!" at the beginning
Of the last movement.

I ushered at a fabulous concert by Vasen and met some of the local folkies, one of whom works at the co-op which I did not know was so near to my house:

Got the sheet music.
Now I just need to find me
Some Swedish fiddlers.

Three years ago I attended the VdGSA West Coast Conclave (and I hope to pull together time and money to do it again this year.)  One of the classes was about singing and playing at the same time.  Being a beginner, I needed a break from the intense concentration of learning where to put the bow, how to translate a new clef to a new string arrangement.  So, I just sang.  The instructor was a fun and talented man from NYC, a member of the group Parthenia.  I've been receiving their news-mails ever since, and was delighted to discover that they would be in ABQ, performing Renaissance songs and dances, along with the poetry of John Donne and W Shakespeare.  I could not find a companion to join me, but it was so not necessary.  The church was a beautiful echoing Episcopalian edifice, with a center patio space, stone walls, marble floors, glowing glass.  I felt at peace, and once the music started I was transported.


I arrive early,
And go into the cloister
To walk the labyrinth.

I listen to hushed
Conversations, swallowed by
The echoing hall.

Renaissance poems,
Songs, and dances make a most
Excellent mixture.

Driving home, I watch
The music made visible:
Clouds above mountains

Finally, there are the intangible moods.  I have become more serene lately.  I am depending more on myself for my happiness, and, while I miss my friends and grieve over loss, I am content to plot my own course without reference to other people.  Connections are still important to me:  I am human.  But the despair seems to be going away.  At any rate, I now seem able to save up the tears for my weekly therapy session.  Which is now imminent.

Visiting a new friend, sitting on his deck looking at the mountains....


To walk or to lounge?
Inertia is powerful.
I watch the hawk soar.

The occasional moodiness and insomnia:  I try mediation but it doesn't always work.......
Rhythmic ocean waves
Cannot drown insistent thoughts.
Cursed insomnia.

Weary, flat, and stale...
No! I am not Prince Hamlet!
But I am quite tired.

Chaos in the world (Boston Marathon)......
What are my fellow
Commuters thinking about?
A town in lockdown..

Psychic disconnect:
Appalling things happen, but
I wake up happy.

And so it goes.  One haiku at a time, I'm chronicling my life.



.

Schrodinger's cat

I am still avoiding my phone.  Mostly, it doesn't matter if I wait a day or so to hear the (usually) bad news and respond to it.  So, I wait.  I wait until I'm not exhausted, not knitting, not watching Judge Judy, not reading, not doing dishes.....in a word, I wait until I feel strong enough to handle the person or problem behind the ring.

I'm not happy about this.  I used to pride myself on my self-discipline and reliability.  I Took Care Of Business.  Now, I take care of myself.  While this is not a bad thing in principle, it is not good in practise.  By avoiding my responsibilities, as represented by my phone,  I take care of myself at the expense of my self-respect and other people's trust.

And, it turns out, at the expense of my cat.

It all started with a call to my voice mail last Friday.  I hadn't looked checked it for two days, hadn't picked up my phone for three.  Wednesday I was charging the phone, and Thursday I was just worn out.  I heard the phone ring around 6:30, and I thought, I don't want to talk to anyone and thus they shouldn't want to talk to me.  (Who wants to talk to a grump with little news and less to say?)  However, on Friday I realized I needed to check back in.  While I'm sure D or people at work will keep me posted regarding the next natural disaster or the beginning of World War III, the more personal things will only be covered by my personal connections.

So, as I left work, I pulled out my phone.  It was 6 p.m., New Mexico time, 5 p.m., Portland time.  Since the New Mexico police are militant about catching drivers with cellphones, I sat in the truck, A/C running, radio muted, and started taking notes.  Oh, I missed sister E's call on Wednesday.  She wants to Skype, and so do I.  Darn.  Someone else called and hung up.  Now it's the Thursday call.....the Woodstock vet?!  Huh? The words are slightly garbled, but it sounds like they have my cat.  How could that be?

Yikes, it's after 5 pm on a Friday.  Most businesses will be closed, but probably not a vet.  I offer up a prayer that the Woodstock Vet is of this enlightened crew and make the call.

The receptionist is confused by my call, which should have been my first warning.  Finally she realizes that they called me first, and I am merely returning the favor.  I have no idea what I am calling about, and I hope she will.

She does.  Ah, yes, your cat Simon (ummm, it's Simone), was brought in Thursday and we found your phone number through her chip.  She is very proud of the fact that the chip is doing it's job.  I'm even more confused:  that chip is 7 years old, and I have not paid the upkeep since the first year.  From all I've read about the chip, you have to maintain the service.  Also, there is no reason Simone should be brought in as a stray.  While she has no collar, she is clearly a pampered kitty with a good home.  (Yes, she has managed to wear me out and I no longer try to replace the collars she ditches within 2 hours of receipt.  It's not the expense, it's the annoyance.)

Besides, I just heard from H this last week.  She sent pix of Simone impersonating a cute internet kitty.  Clearly, E and H are taking proper care of her.

So, what happened?  The receptionist does not know, but she is expecting me to come in to retrieve my cat.  I explain that is not going to happen:  I am in New Mexico.  I ask if she can contact the current caretakers, who I believe should be on file with them.  Louie, their pet of 17 years, was a regular visitor.

Hmmm, that does ring a bell, and she'll make a note that they have permission to pick up Simone, but she is not going to call them.  Nor is she going to call the person who kidnapped my cat and brought her in.  She verifies that the cat they have is a tuxedo kitty, and that's all she can do for me, but she informs me cheerfully that they'll be open until 6 and again on Saturday, 8-4.

So, I panic, trying to reach E and H and spare my poor abused kitty another night in prison.  I can't find their number in my phone, because it's D's old phone.  (I had replaced my laundered phone with his phone, and while they changed the phone number, they did not replace the contacts info.  He has a lot of contacts, but I can't find E and H under any permutations of names and nicknames.  Later I discover that the phone converted Hollybeth into Beth, Holly.  Stupid elecrtonics.)

I call D.  He is en route, having picked up sopapillas and green chili stew for our dinner.  I beg him to call E and H, and when I get home I call their home phone.  Neither of us can reach them, and, as a last ditch effort, I leave an e-mail.

H calls me, but again I miss the phone call.  So, she e-mails me at 12:14 am, and I get that message when I wake up.
So E says there was one day this week when she remembers wondering where Simone got to. (Usually if the weather's nice she's in and out, every couple hours.) And right before Simone came to stay with us, E had to persuade a neighbor across the street that Fela the neighbor cat is a local and not lost. So I guess the vet let neighbor lady take Simone away again and quietly release her back here?
That kitty has her secrets, doesn't she. :)
I reply:
I guess the vet released her, if Simone was back in your hands last night. I talked with the vet at 5 pm yesterday, and Simone was still there, so I frantically was trying to reach you. Apparently she had been imprisoned since Thursday, when the first call came (I seem to be ignoring my phone and my email lately.)
I'm confused.
but as long as she's safe, that's all that matters. Thanks!

H adds to my confusion:
No, she was definitely here every morning when I got up; she's very prompt because I give her wet food for breakfast. And there hasn't been an entire evening when I never saw her, either. I am confused too.
What will be really interesting is if you get another call from the vet saying she's still there.
Simone had a nice day rolling in the dirt in the backyard (why, cat, why?) and playing with Elizabeth's sunglasses.

I had plans to call the vet back and ferret out what happened, but my usual inertia kicked in and I dropped the matter.  However, last night E found me on gmail and we had the following chat:
E: Went down to Woodstock Vet today to see if I could sort out what was going on.  The receptionist was as confused as I was. But we all agree that they don't have Simone.
10:52 PM (Although they apparently did at one point?)
10:53 PM In any case, Simone is having a lovely time in the litterbox as we speak. :-/
***********
11:01 PM me: thank for checking up on that. Weird.
11:02 PM E: Yeah!  For a while, we were all, "Do we have a faux!Simone?"
11:05 PM me:...a faux Simone? not possible, she is unique!
E: I was quite nervous that I'd go down to the vet.....and they'd have a petite and graceful tuxedo kitty...who was quite social and liked to sit on shoulders.
11:06 PM At which point, I'd be all, "So who the fuck did we kidnap from refgoddess' house two months ago??"
me: :)
E: H was all, "If they do have another Simone there, you have to call me RIGHT AWAY."
11:07 PM In case, you know, there were alternate reality implications.  Wouldn't want to catastrophically collapse one reality into another by bringing the two Simones into close proximity.
THAT MIGHT END THE WORLD.
11:11 PM me:  So, did the receptionist actually call me? Did I talk with her? I was under the distinct impression that she had S right there: I asked for a verification and everything. but maybe she was just looking at the report.
11:13 PM E: I never talked to the receptionist that talked to you.  The receptionist I talked to was looking at her notes....and her notes seemed to indicate that Simone was there, even though she wasn't. And the receptionist I talked to didn't understand how Simone could have been there, and then just somehow ended up back in our neighborhood again.
So. Dunno.

And that's where we decide to leave the mystery.  It's late, and I need my sleep.  But the next day I look up the "Schrodinger's cat" thought experiment and I try to explain it to D.  He is not interested, but I think quantum physics might have the answer.  Much as I like alternate reality theories, I don't think they are going to explain how Simone was in two places at once, nor how she teleported herself home.  I am convinced it has something to do with the Copenhagen interpretation.

A sore throat is not poetic

I grow old, I grow old.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Over 30 years ago, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and the words have followed me around ever since.  At the first reading, of course, I could not possibly understand what Eliot was going on about.  I had not met commitment-phobes.  I had not attended the empty cocktail parties, and I was at the beginning of my life's business of figuring out how to make a difference.  While I never thought I would live a life of passionate meaning, I did not fear that my beautiful life would be a conglomeration of dreary moments.  But now, I do fear.  I count the meaningless, passionless accumulations, and I wonder how I can get those mermaids to sing to me.

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.

In fact, my life is measured out in pixels, not coffee spoons.  It's another age.

Today I woke up with an inflamed throat, an aching body, and a tottering step.  I got up to feed Carbon and cancel on the Wednesday walk, but then D made me go back to bed and brought me coffee, toast, and the morning paper.   The cat and dog joined me in their usual snuggly fashion.  But I couldn't stay down.

Next thing you know, I'm staring at the iPad screen, checking out the e-mail, applying for jobs, tossing a losing word at Lexulous.  Then I throw in the towel, put on a skirt, and join D downstairs.  And for the next several hours, I sit with the laptop.  Across the room, the 42" plasma TV screen is also going full blast.  My home is a pixellated hell.

I check Craigslist for convection toaster ovens and cooktops.  Troy and Brian check in:  time to tile the downstairs shower and finish work on the French doors.  The pilot light on the water heater has gone out AGAIN:  Brian relights it, but the theory is that, at long last,  it is giving up the ghost.  Several weeks ago I was wondering which appliance was going to go next.  Now I know.

In the rooms, the (workers) come and go, talking of....well, not of Michaelangelo.

D takes off for his Senior Forum for Collaborative Stories meeting. They are finding places to show I Am and facilitate discussions.  He, at any rate, is trying to make a difference.

Meanwhile, I finish the applications and sign into Spark:  Lnet needs an extra body to do some virtual reference.  As I try to help someone find a microfilm reader/printer, a window pops up.  I have 15 seconds to accept or reject the question.  It reads, simply, "help."  I ignore it, and it goes away, to return more emphatically:  "Desperately needing help with something."  It's not compassion that makes me accept it, but the fact that I am no longer helping anyone else.  But, the questioner has given up, moved on, or found the answer somewhere else.  Not my problem any more.

Thinking of the vagaries of computer-generated help, I decide to set up the application for Mortgage Assistance.  It's been 2 weeks since my last attempt, and I'm trying to not get my hopes up.  They say there are more openings this time around, but I've heard that before.

Okay:  all filled out, ready for me to hit the Submit button at zero hour.  I return to Spark and set up another Judge Judy.  Wow, this one features an earthquake!  It's like an original Star Trek episode:  the camera shakes up and down and people get up and start running for the doors while JJ dives under her desk. It doesn't seem real, but apparently it is.

Ooof! 10 minutes to go. I'm getting hungry, but nothing sounds good. My throat is still raspy.

Do I dare to eat a peach?

Here we go!  11:59.  The tiny heartless window pops up, informing me that there are no more funds for my county.  I expected it, since I'm early, and try again.  This time there are no funds AND the passwords don't match.   It's 12:00.  Again, no funds.  I am too exhausted to be furious.  Doggedly I try again.  And again.  And again.  And....I'm in!

Feverishly, I fill out everything I can, print up the 8 pages of information, checklists, official forms.  There is more to do but....I'M IN!

I get up to make chicken soup and settle down to watch TV and knit.  The workers continue to check in with me, and I hear the whine of table saws in the distance.  D calls several times on his errands.  I send more messages into the ether.  I read the responses.  My head still hurts.  Carbon and Simone joust for my attention, and I pet them.

The next thing you know, it's 4:30, the light is waning, the workers are winding up, and my day is over.   Finally, I turn off the TV and set aside the laptop.  I am too tired to pick up and I am confused:  where did this mess come from?  I just sat in front of glowing screens.  I made some soup and some toast, cut up an orange, peeled some garlic.  I gathered up the compost and stacked the dishes.  I brought in the mail.  WHERE DID THIS MESS COME FROM?

D blames me.  He is unhappy, because housework is his job, and I am finally holding him to it.   He says he wouldn't mind doing the work if I would just pick up after myself.  Sick or well, my natural environment is the barnyard.  Says he.

No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be! Am an attendant lord...

We are both searching for something and not finding it, and the small victories emphasize this.  Meanwhile, D finds consolation in the pixels that produce Hearts games, and I find consolation in my own pixels.  This, for example, found posted on Facebook.  Or this.  Or this.  There are some amazing things in the world.

Oy, now I have laryngitis. I think I'll take my cold to bed and hope for a more meaningful day tomorrow.  Or, at any rate, for a less raw throat.

And indeed there will be time.

Yes, we're talking about hemorrhoids

Yesterday I was driving D and K home from the Blazer game, and we were listening to the sports network broadcast, which was re-hashing what they had already seen.  It's always interesting and appalling to see how paid advertisements dovetail with the broadcast.  It's a truism that sports events are supported by alcohol (mainly beer), cars (mainly trucks), and girls (mainly supporting the other items.)  But yesterday I heard this:  "This is something that everyone has and no one wants to talk about....yes, we're talking about hemorrhoids."

It took me a mile to stop hooting.

(So, do sports fans get this lil' problem more than other people?  Is it from riding around in trucks, drinking beer?)

Then I started thinking about how far we have come.....or rather, how low we have fallen....since the days of my youth, when bras were worn outside the dress, Madge soaked nails in Palmolive, and the big personal hygiene product was something that promoted "freshness."  It took years for me to understand these coy commercials, but now very little is left to the imagination.

Years ago, I read a James Thurber essay about his secret life of metaphor.  He spent hours worrying about chance-heard phrases, imagining horrors that were never intended (e.g., Mrs. Harris, who was "terribly cut up" when her husband died.)  I suppose today's children have their own areas of mystification, the elucidation of which marks the beginning of adulthood.  And perhaps I should be glad that figuring out how hemorrhoids are cured is not part of that inscrutable process.  But I am not.

While I am a big advocate for honesty and plain speaking, I find I still retain some glimmerings of....dare we say?....shyness.   I am actually disturbed by the bluntness of today's commercials, by the no-holds-barred invasion of privacy.  Is nothing off limits?  Do I really need to hear about the side effects of various medications?   Commercials, with their blaring intrusions into the program, hold enough horror for me, by their mere existence.  And some are clever (at least for the first 100 viewings.)  But these medical and personal hygiene commercials really do set the bar way too low.

In fact, this may be another sign of the descent of civilization.  No, let's not talk about hemorrhoids.

Learning Languages

Yesterday S taught me Chinook.

More truthfully, she taught me Chinook and ASL.

Actually, she shared a few words with me and told me I was killing fairies when I translated into English.  I have a stick and a stone on my kitchen counter now:  they were the props.  The Chinook word for Stick is....Stick.  The Chinook word for Stone is Stoon (very Nordic or Old English. Apparently the original Chinook language has been heavily influenced by English.) The ASL gesture for stick is forefinger and thumb of each hand held an inch apart, in a pre-grasping position.   The other fingers are balled loosely into the palm.  The tips of the fingers point to each other and pull apart, creating or drawing a stick as they move.  The ASL gesture for stone is two loose fists, thumb outside.  The curled fingers of the dominant hand land lightly but firmly on top of the non-dominant hand:  a stone on a surface.

S is learning the language from native speakers at PSU because it is in danger of being lost.  She is a little frustrated because people don't really care about learning the ASL.  I found the inclusion of ASL both distracting and compelling.  It's distracting, because I'm so used to dividing mind and body when I am learning something, and when learning is integrated I find it difficult to figure out where to put my focus.  Also, when I reach information overload, it's a total overload.  I remember in college, I used to study and write in the lounge of the Fine Arts building.  When I couldn't take it anymore, I would run around the building and look for friends to distract me.  It was an either/or thing:  turn off the mind, move the body.  Move the body, turn off the mind.  (Maybe this is why I can't talk during sex?)

However, including ASL in the process is compelling for the same reason it's distracting:  because it draws on muscle memory as well as mental memory.  You have so many more hooks to hang your learning upon.  And, it's a familiar method.  When I learn music or play an instrument, it's a full mind-body experience.  I am integrating words and notes with specific physical motions.   As with language, the mental/physical integration is vital to the finished product.

I had thought that this comparison was less applicable to the the vocal instrument, but at this year's choir retreat we learned* to increase resonance and lessen fatigue by standing loosely and letting the head balance on spinal column.  It was a bizarre feeling, because I am so used to tensing physically when I work mentally:  I clench my jaw and hunch forward.  At the computer, I assume the goose-neck posture so common today.  I don't see a flaw in the product, but there's a definite flaw in the process.  I get so weary, and my body gets repetitive motion injuries.

Still, it also seems necessary to separate mind and body, to focus on specific areas of the process.  I plan to practice my newly-acquired viola da gamba (thanks, D and Reed College for arranging the rental!), and part of that practice will be a monotonous string-crossing exercise, purely for the sake of increasing muscle memory. The goal is to learn to hit the right string as I play.  You need to be able to watch the music, not the bow, after all.

We have this conundrum, a version of the mind-body problem.  Language and music are both communication tools.  To learn them, we have to practice them. To get good, we can't just, as S says, throw a lot of processor space at them.  To practice, we need to separate mind and body.  To get good, we need to integrate.   And, in the final analysis, we need to integrate with other people, which is probably why communication must be taught physically and learned from another person.  If you learn from a book, or from old pictures (which is how many old instruments are reconstructed), you miss out on that integration.  And, you probably miss out on some key information.   So, how do you combine physical and mental, repetitive and generative techniques?

A favorite poem (The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart) and a compelling play (The Language Archive) both touch on these thoughts. But, in the meantime,  I've already forgotten how to say, "What is This?"  A final conundrum to puzzle over:  do I try to learn many new things because I want to broaden my connections and do my part to keep culture(s) alive, or do I just want to avoid the tedious practice required to actually be good at a few?

*Body mapping techniques taught by Cynthia McGladrey

Moving the Chi

This was the last Tai Chi Chuh session for the fall term.  We do the entire practice, and then share a potluck.  As steward, I'm responsible for collecting class evaluations, so I had to show up, despite my throat.  Technically this should not have been a problem, as the main symptom now is the laryngitis, and you don't talk during the practice.

However, I was also at a work training session this morning, and the home front was pretty exhausting when I returned home.   The logistics of taking care of daily business were complicated by communication difficulties, and we ended up retreating to our separate corners and licking our wounds.

I did, however, find the energy to make a quiche and an apple crumb pie.  The latter was a peace offering to D (he brought me flowers for his offering, and went out for the apples.)  The quiche was for the potluck, and it was totally made up of leftovers and staples.  The crust was a leftover from the apple/green tomato pie I made 2 weeks ago: L's fabulous recipe makes 4 crusts, and since it takes 1 egg, there's no good way to cut the recipe down.  The filling included pesto cubes from my annual pesto production, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and, of course, the egg custard.  The whole thing was superb, and very pretty, with dots of red and green peeking through the yellow, white and brown top, cooked just right.

Baking is really the easiest way to be creative:  take what you have, substitute what you must, add in an unconventional spice or ingredient, et voila!  Uniqueness happens.

But I was still wiped out, and the drive to the class was disconcerting.  It was dark, the streets were crowded, and the bicyclists were invisible.  When I got to Chapman and Lownsdale Squares, the former Occupy Portland sites showed stark under the brilliant klieg lights.  The ginkgos' graceful golden fan-lined branches were surreal bits of glowing beauty, enclosed in chain link fences, standing amidst the pounded earth and cement.

I wondered what I was doing, going on my usual rounds while the economy crumbles and my own life is a microcosm of the larger disintegration.  But I got to church, plugged the meter, gathered up my quiche and paperwork, and went to class.

And, magically, it was all okay.  We stood sock-footed in the circle, eyes focussed on middle distance, quiet music filling the silence.  From the dark windows, headlights flashed the news that rush hour was still in force, but it was a distant intimation of the city.  Together we created a mountain retreat, arms and legs moving through platter, drum, ball, taffy, gathering in the energy, pushing it away, bringing it back.  I felt the familiar tingling warmth in my fingers, wondered if I would ever develop the "flutter," and then let that thought go:  what matters is the practice, the rest will come if it will.

And now I type while D and R play cards and Marc Cohn sings from Pandora.  Life is good, and there are so many forms the energy can take.  I just have to trust that if I pay attention, I will be supported by all of them.

Silenced!

This is officially the beginning of Week Three for my cold.  It's nothing new, I am usually susceptible to these respiratory things, and they usually drag on (and on).  However, today I woke up literally unable to speak above a whisper.

D called the doctor and made me an appointment for 3:30 p.m.  Up to that point, our day was full of whispered comments on my side and irritable "WHAT?"s from his side.   Or his favorite, "You're mistaking me for a hearing man."

(This is also not that new for us, but the blaring TV is usually the culprit.)

So we go to the doctor, and he checks for strep and bronchitis and actually there's not much wrong with me except the irritated throat.  Prescription:  treat the symptoms and give the voice a rest.  That is, NO TALKING!

This is where I realize how very much I use my voice.   I coo to the pets.  I talk back to D.  I sing.  I babble.  And occasionally I even try to communicate.  I found myself trying to invent a gestural language on the fly, and D's response was "I refuse to play charades."

A few weeks ago my friend S went to a new dentist and found herself defaulting to ASL, and, wonder of wonders, her dentist knew sign.  But what are the odds of that happening?    Still, I wish I had that default language, even though I only know two people who sign (and one is living up north.)  Or I wish that more people knew how to lip-read.

Actually, I occasionally think about learning sign,  but I know that my follow-through will be non-existent.  I keep trying and failing to revive my long-lost German and Spanish, and if I can't manage with languages I learned as a child, what are the odds my adult brain can learn a new language?

Instead, I am semaphoring and writing illegible notes to D and he is saying things like "What's that?  You say Timmy's fallen down the well?"

I'm thinking, though, that this is where I learn afresh how uncomfortable I am with silence.  Not just the absence of talk, but the absence of my own voice.  We had K and J over for dinner last night, and I really wanted to talk story, but already my voice was failing.  I would rasp out things like, "Tell me more about Hawaii," in an attempt to put the conversational onus on them, but then I kept wanting to respond in kind.   It's not that I think what I have to say is that earth-shaking, it's that I don't feel connected if my mouth isn't flapping.  Which is why, I suppose, I am so sensitive to being interrupted.

Imagine how it feels to have my voice totally silenced.