Pure Imagination
I remember watching the original Willy Wonka and thinking the Chocolate Factory is nice but I can create one better. And so I built a wondrous enchanted land so magical and colorful that I spent days refining this beautiful place. I sat down to convey the majesty of endless fields of grass so pure and clean that during each inhale lungs became strengthened and super powers increased. I wanted to some how capture the water so clear that fishing became a spectator sport the goal to identify the beauty of its diversity. If I could paint the canvas would fill an entire city block to capture the beauty of this land.
But my gift is in words, and even on my best of days I fall short of properly capturing and conveying all the intricate nuances that create not prose but a story.
A story starts with pure imagination it gestates not in the womb but in the brain, it is nurtured with love from the soul and inspiration. When the story is created a new life is born. A good story can not be contained in ink and paper.
A good story sits next to you, and little by little it enters your system, and before you know it you have fallen in love with this story. The characters are real, created and refined by millions of ideas that float like fog on the water.
Which brings me back to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory pure imagination feels magical, the real magic is in being able to capture all those ideas, thoughts and mental images and turning them into a story.
I enjoy the act of pure imagination, my mind has infinite idea sometimes I have wondered if I could hire myself out to those with writers block. My biggest challenge is in finding a balance between imagination and creating. The heady experience of giving my creative side carte blanche is exhilarating but equally fantastic is when my fingers caress the keyboard bringing the creativity to the table in a manner of speaking.
The internal struggle to balance creativity and creation is worthy of self reflection but only if it allows you to achieve your goal.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Cynicism? No. Innocence.
"I am in the 7th grade!" I stomped my foot and yelled from my bedroom. <insert laugh track>
"I don't want you going on the train alone!" My mom yelled back from the kitchen. I walked back to the kitchen. "I am 13 stop treating me like a baby, I am not scared of the trains." My frustration started to mount.
"We will all go your sisters would also love to see the Frick Collection." And just like that Ace I needed from the deck of cards shuffled by the fickle hand of fate appeared. You want us to all go, after what happened with S two months I ago? I pointed my younger sister S for emphasis who looked on innocently unaware of any conflict. My mother looked at S, and then I played the ace of clubs, "you know how C gets when she has to walk to much."
I could tell my mom was reliving the nightmares of a few months earlier we had all gone down to Herald Square and we had lost S. Technically S was not lost she was following us as we searched for her. <insert hysterical laugh track> All this while baby C was adamant about not wanting to walk because she was tired.
My mom knew I had won that round. "You can go with but only if you take Gabby with you." Not a victory or a loss in my book. Great.
Saturday finally rolled around, it was a bitterly cold Winter morning. I had lost my gloves yet again, before my mother could ask I dashed out the house. I had met Gabby 3 years earlier, she had been placed in our classroom mid-year.
From the moment I met her I felt like she was one of my sisters, I already had 3 one more would only make it even. Gabby commanded attention, her doe eyes, languid, unhurried movements from years of ballet had given her something that can only develop after teen years. Gabby had grace, before I even understood the concept of grace. Even when we did our NYC walking hers was different, she was like a gazelle fast, sleek and graceful. And as if to add insult to injury she could walk in this fashion while carrying her school and ballet gear.
The wind was so viciously cruel that I was ready to quit as soon as possible, which was just as well Gabby had her ballet recital. I decided, to skip her recital as I had a book back in my warm cozy bedroom calling my name.
I jumped on the train and found a seat, I almost started to cry, the train had no heat. I couldn't shove my hands in my pockets because people were sitting on either side of me. My red, raw hands hummed and throbbed with pain. The pain became more unbearable. In an effort to pretend it wasn't real I became rigid, I slowed my breathing. I was cold therefore I would become a statue like the ones I just saw at the Frick collection. I didn't need to move my eyes to my Swatch watch, I knew the train ride would take 45 minutes if no delays occurred.
The pain in my hands increased, the train car was so cold I could see my breath. I started to sweat it I was so cold. I swore that I would never lose my gloves again and I would jump under the covers as soon as I got home.
My thoughts raced, my misery only increased with each passing minute but I did not dare move for fear that my hands would fall off.
And then I felt something different, the urge to move was strong, I shifted my eyes to the left. At first all I saw was a bent head close to a pad, my brain was pre-occupied with the pain in my hands. He looked up, no he didn't look, he looked at my hands his head bent lower and his hands worked faster.
He was sketching my hand, still not moving I looked down. My hands were wind chapped, cracked, red, raw and swollen. I watched him, as he continued to sketch, soon I forgot my hands. I wanted to see his sketch, now instead of burning pain I had burning curiosity to see what he had captured.
We were only four stops away, my pain had long since been forgotten, just as I was about to contrive a reason to get up and look at the sketch his head popped up but this time he remembered he was inside of a train, he leaped up, sketch pad still open so I could catch a brief glance of his charcoal drawing. My hands!
The doors closed he was gone. Only three stops to go. I sat back in my seat the train was nearly empty I could put my hands in my pocket if I wanted. I didn't know what to think he had sketched my hands feverishly but my hands looked horrendous. I was baffled, art created beauty, no beauty could be found in my hands at the moment. I still did not dare move them as they hurt so much.
On four additional occasions over my train riding, my hands were sketched by art students. I was always baffled, was it because I stood still? Was it something about my hands? I would examine them closely after each encounter.
Cynically after my last encounter I decided that in the universe of things my hands had been destined to be sketched by the random powers of fate and time.
Tonight I was on G+ and as is the norm, I let the stream of pictures, stories, wash over me. And as the posts flowed I realized that the more things change the more they stay the same.
It wasn't to long ago that people would bring a boom box on the train, now they dig out their cellphones and blast their tunes. (FYI, if you are ever on a train with someone who just got back from Louisiana festival just change cars, listening to more than 30 minutes of Zydeco will burn your brains and ears.)
We jump on the train and we take furtive pictures of each other. I remember when we sketched each other. We sit with our laptops tapping out stories, I remember when people would pull out a batter notebook and in barely legible penmanship write out scenes and dialogues.
I look at G+ and I realize that technology has given me the innocence I thought was scared off by old cynicism.
How is it possible that technology with its cold, shiny, plastic, buttons has allowed me to view the world with wonder?
I don't know.
"I don't want you going on the train alone!" My mom yelled back from the kitchen. I walked back to the kitchen. "I am 13 stop treating me like a baby, I am not scared of the trains." My frustration started to mount.
"We will all go your sisters would also love to see the Frick Collection." And just like that Ace I needed from the deck of cards shuffled by the fickle hand of fate appeared. You want us to all go, after what happened with S two months I ago? I pointed my younger sister S for emphasis who looked on innocently unaware of any conflict. My mother looked at S, and then I played the ace of clubs, "you know how C gets when she has to walk to much."
I could tell my mom was reliving the nightmares of a few months earlier we had all gone down to Herald Square and we had lost S. Technically S was not lost she was following us as we searched for her. <insert hysterical laugh track> All this while baby C was adamant about not wanting to walk because she was tired.
My mom knew I had won that round. "You can go with but only if you take Gabby with you." Not a victory or a loss in my book. Great.
Saturday finally rolled around, it was a bitterly cold Winter morning. I had lost my gloves yet again, before my mother could ask I dashed out the house. I had met Gabby 3 years earlier, she had been placed in our classroom mid-year.
From the moment I met her I felt like she was one of my sisters, I already had 3 one more would only make it even. Gabby commanded attention, her doe eyes, languid, unhurried movements from years of ballet had given her something that can only develop after teen years. Gabby had grace, before I even understood the concept of grace. Even when we did our NYC walking hers was different, she was like a gazelle fast, sleek and graceful. And as if to add insult to injury she could walk in this fashion while carrying her school and ballet gear.
The wind was so viciously cruel that I was ready to quit as soon as possible, which was just as well Gabby had her ballet recital. I decided, to skip her recital as I had a book back in my warm cozy bedroom calling my name.
I jumped on the train and found a seat, I almost started to cry, the train had no heat. I couldn't shove my hands in my pockets because people were sitting on either side of me. My red, raw hands hummed and throbbed with pain. The pain became more unbearable. In an effort to pretend it wasn't real I became rigid, I slowed my breathing. I was cold therefore I would become a statue like the ones I just saw at the Frick collection. I didn't need to move my eyes to my Swatch watch, I knew the train ride would take 45 minutes if no delays occurred.
The pain in my hands increased, the train car was so cold I could see my breath. I started to sweat it I was so cold. I swore that I would never lose my gloves again and I would jump under the covers as soon as I got home.
My thoughts raced, my misery only increased with each passing minute but I did not dare move for fear that my hands would fall off.
And then I felt something different, the urge to move was strong, I shifted my eyes to the left. At first all I saw was a bent head close to a pad, my brain was pre-occupied with the pain in my hands. He looked up, no he didn't look, he looked at my hands his head bent lower and his hands worked faster.
He was sketching my hand, still not moving I looked down. My hands were wind chapped, cracked, red, raw and swollen. I watched him, as he continued to sketch, soon I forgot my hands. I wanted to see his sketch, now instead of burning pain I had burning curiosity to see what he had captured.
We were only four stops away, my pain had long since been forgotten, just as I was about to contrive a reason to get up and look at the sketch his head popped up but this time he remembered he was inside of a train, he leaped up, sketch pad still open so I could catch a brief glance of his charcoal drawing. My hands!
The doors closed he was gone. Only three stops to go. I sat back in my seat the train was nearly empty I could put my hands in my pocket if I wanted. I didn't know what to think he had sketched my hands feverishly but my hands looked horrendous. I was baffled, art created beauty, no beauty could be found in my hands at the moment. I still did not dare move them as they hurt so much.
On four additional occasions over my train riding, my hands were sketched by art students. I was always baffled, was it because I stood still? Was it something about my hands? I would examine them closely after each encounter.
Cynically after my last encounter I decided that in the universe of things my hands had been destined to be sketched by the random powers of fate and time.
Tonight I was on G+ and as is the norm, I let the stream of pictures, stories, wash over me. And as the posts flowed I realized that the more things change the more they stay the same.
It wasn't to long ago that people would bring a boom box on the train, now they dig out their cellphones and blast their tunes. (FYI, if you are ever on a train with someone who just got back from Louisiana festival just change cars, listening to more than 30 minutes of Zydeco will burn your brains and ears.)
We jump on the train and we take furtive pictures of each other. I remember when we sketched each other. We sit with our laptops tapping out stories, I remember when people would pull out a batter notebook and in barely legible penmanship write out scenes and dialogues.
I look at G+ and I realize that technology has given me the innocence I thought was scared off by old cynicism.
How is it possible that technology with its cold, shiny, plastic, buttons has allowed me to view the world with wonder?
I don't know.
Friday, May 10, 2013
What the hell were you thinkinig? Now is not the time for that!
We had my sister W surrounded in a circle.
My mother said nothing but shook her head.
I was irate. "You are only 19 years old. You finished High School last year, you have a part time job"
"Why would you embarrass our family like this?" my sister S asked in disgust she had just started High School.
"Way to set an example for me" my baby sister C smirked.
The was the ultimate, how could she I was so furious with W that I could barely look at her. We are mirror images only difference that she thinner and lighter than I am. Most days when we walk out we are called by each others names. When we pick up the phone, people confuse us every single time. I felt smug, superior, smarter. I was doing the right thing. I was in college, I was bringing glory to our family name and legacy.
W stood in the circle of shame and said nothing her head hung low. She understood in that moment she did not have our support. W straightened her spine and walked out of the room. We continued to fume.
Actually we fumed for the next nine months. Everyday the whispers of what the hell was she thinking would float through out our sunny apartment. Inside a cloud hung over us, we were good girls, we lived up to expectations, we weren't like other people.
July came way to soon one day as we were watching TV W's water broke. My mother very calmly picked up the hospital bag that was prepared and jumped into a cab with W.
W had a slow long painful labor, my mother was in more agony than my sister. My mother threatened to hurt whomever didn't end my sister's suffering immediately. Watching my sister's face contorted in agony was destroying my mother second by second. My mom had dreamt of a boat load of grandchildren forgetting how painful and stressful childbirth can be.
And then it happened after nine long months, he was here RX was born. My mother stared in wonder and pride. My sister was to tired, we stopped by the hospital we took one look at RX, small wrinkly gray, fuzzy hair googly eyes and we were in love. In that one second RX completed our family we could feel it the missing piece, he was what we had been waiting for as a family.
In an instant, five opinionated females who never met eye to eye or agreed discovered that in order to give RX the best we needed to come together. Something bloomed between the us as sisters. Something that had never existed before.
We were filled with love for each other but now we were also grateful that our sister had shared this beautiful gift with us. I look at my sister now and I wonder: What the hell was I thinking!
She understood that life hands us all kinds of treasures we are the ones who put conditions and limitations on them. We become blind, ungrateful and in doing so we become unworthy of future gifts because we tarnish the ability to receive gifts.
My mother said nothing but shook her head.
I was irate. "You are only 19 years old. You finished High School last year, you have a part time job"
"Why would you embarrass our family like this?" my sister S asked in disgust she had just started High School.
"Way to set an example for me" my baby sister C smirked.
The was the ultimate, how could she I was so furious with W that I could barely look at her. We are mirror images only difference that she thinner and lighter than I am. Most days when we walk out we are called by each others names. When we pick up the phone, people confuse us every single time. I felt smug, superior, smarter. I was doing the right thing. I was in college, I was bringing glory to our family name and legacy.
W stood in the circle of shame and said nothing her head hung low. She understood in that moment she did not have our support. W straightened her spine and walked out of the room. We continued to fume.
Actually we fumed for the next nine months. Everyday the whispers of what the hell was she thinking would float through out our sunny apartment. Inside a cloud hung over us, we were good girls, we lived up to expectations, we weren't like other people.
July came way to soon one day as we were watching TV W's water broke. My mother very calmly picked up the hospital bag that was prepared and jumped into a cab with W.
W had a slow long painful labor, my mother was in more agony than my sister. My mother threatened to hurt whomever didn't end my sister's suffering immediately. Watching my sister's face contorted in agony was destroying my mother second by second. My mom had dreamt of a boat load of grandchildren forgetting how painful and stressful childbirth can be.
And then it happened after nine long months, he was here RX was born. My mother stared in wonder and pride. My sister was to tired, we stopped by the hospital we took one look at RX, small wrinkly gray, fuzzy hair googly eyes and we were in love. In that one second RX completed our family we could feel it the missing piece, he was what we had been waiting for as a family.
In an instant, five opinionated females who never met eye to eye or agreed discovered that in order to give RX the best we needed to come together. Something bloomed between the us as sisters. Something that had never existed before.
We were filled with love for each other but now we were also grateful that our sister had shared this beautiful gift with us. I look at my sister now and I wonder: What the hell was I thinking!
She understood that life hands us all kinds of treasures we are the ones who put conditions and limitations on them. We become blind, ungrateful and in doing so we become unworthy of future gifts because we tarnish the ability to receive gifts.
Who I am --> Who I want to be.
Life is a process of self-discovery, reflection, awareness and education. And the process can be down right excruciatingly painful a times.
When I was 20 years about to graduate from college I was so sure I wanted to join corporate America and be one of those 80 hours per week corner office dynamo. A year later graduation had come and gone, law school was more of an annoyance than something I felt committed to finishing.
I looked to the left and the right I was surrounded by classmates who would sell their souls to the highest bidder. And all I could think was my soul is nice and shiny I want to keep it that way. My boredom in law school increased. Then the phone call, my mothers brain tumor had stabilized and they felt it was the best time to operate. I quickly packed up dumped what I didn't want, took what I wanted and went home.
The doctors gave a grim prognosis, surgery was a 10% shot and if she didn't have it well they didn't have to finish the sentence to feel the grim reaper rubbing his hands. The surgeon placed his hands on my shoulder and said: "if she does wake up she may not be able to walk or talk." My mom was prepped for surgery. We are not a family of criers, instead I looked at my mom and told her it would be in poor taste if she failed to wake up or if she lost the ability to walk or talk. My mom nodded in agreement.
They wheeled her away so small wrapped up in so many hospital bed linens to keep her warm. I locked my jaw and my mind. I reminded myself we did not cry. My sisters watched me they were all younger, the youngest sat down and started crying my other sisters comforted her. I held her hand and told her it was important to remember that our mom is a tough old broad. And because I was not in charge as my mother was in surgery I started recounting our family history.
I spoke about the beginning back in my mothers native land her dream to come to the USA. I spoke about her hardships how she had overcome every single one by herself alone with almost no English skills. My sisters spines strengthened they remembered we weren't like other people we were strong we didn't cry. With the anxiety gone my sisters fell back into their respective normal rhythm as we waited for the surgery to finish.
I had done my job, feigning man like hunger I said I was going to grab some food. My sisters kept talking. I rode the elevator down one flight ducked into an empty bathroom stall and cried for an hour. All those years I had read about heartbreak and I now I felt. I felt my heart breaking for my mom she still had dreams, goals, she was still young. My sisters still needed her and I was in no position to take over.
When I was able to calm myself I fixed my face and headed outside allergies were the perfect excuse for red eyes. I walked for over an hour. Mindlessly.
I stiffened my spine, my actress skills needed to be impeccable when I went back upstairs. My sisters were on several chairs sleeping, the waiting room was beautiful and comfortable, but I found little joy or comfort in the area itself.
Eight hours later, the surgeon came out, we were all drained but felt a bolt of energy at his appearance. Your mother is out of surgery, she is in the ICU we are waiting for the swelling to go down so she can naturally wake up. We nodded and thanked the surgeon.
The next morning we arrived before visiting hours (when you have a large hospital and only two visitors are permitted you quickly learn that by hopping from one building to the next you can go anywhere) We walked in my mom opened her eyes she frowned. She put her hand up to the bandage that partially obscured her eyes. Before we could say anything she demanded in righteous indignation: Who won the game last night and they need to fix this bandage if I am going to watch my game. The surgeon had just walked in and was going to ask her a series of questions to determine if any mental functioning had been affected. He took one look at my mom, and I could tell he was patting himself on the back. He walked back out of the rooms no questions.
Did I change my mind about working 80 per week and the corner office because of my mom? No. I had already started to suspect that chasing artificial dreams is no different than insomnia.
I think I learned in that one tumultuous year that life is so unpredictable that trying to nail it down is like trying to embrace the wind a beautiful but impossible idea.
When I was 20 years about to graduate from college I was so sure I wanted to join corporate America and be one of those 80 hours per week corner office dynamo. A year later graduation had come and gone, law school was more of an annoyance than something I felt committed to finishing.
I looked to the left and the right I was surrounded by classmates who would sell their souls to the highest bidder. And all I could think was my soul is nice and shiny I want to keep it that way. My boredom in law school increased. Then the phone call, my mothers brain tumor had stabilized and they felt it was the best time to operate. I quickly packed up dumped what I didn't want, took what I wanted and went home.
The doctors gave a grim prognosis, surgery was a 10% shot and if she didn't have it well they didn't have to finish the sentence to feel the grim reaper rubbing his hands. The surgeon placed his hands on my shoulder and said: "if she does wake up she may not be able to walk or talk." My mom was prepped for surgery. We are not a family of criers, instead I looked at my mom and told her it would be in poor taste if she failed to wake up or if she lost the ability to walk or talk. My mom nodded in agreement.
They wheeled her away so small wrapped up in so many hospital bed linens to keep her warm. I locked my jaw and my mind. I reminded myself we did not cry. My sisters watched me they were all younger, the youngest sat down and started crying my other sisters comforted her. I held her hand and told her it was important to remember that our mom is a tough old broad. And because I was not in charge as my mother was in surgery I started recounting our family history.
I spoke about the beginning back in my mothers native land her dream to come to the USA. I spoke about her hardships how she had overcome every single one by herself alone with almost no English skills. My sisters spines strengthened they remembered we weren't like other people we were strong we didn't cry. With the anxiety gone my sisters fell back into their respective normal rhythm as we waited for the surgery to finish.
I had done my job, feigning man like hunger I said I was going to grab some food. My sisters kept talking. I rode the elevator down one flight ducked into an empty bathroom stall and cried for an hour. All those years I had read about heartbreak and I now I felt. I felt my heart breaking for my mom she still had dreams, goals, she was still young. My sisters still needed her and I was in no position to take over.
When I was able to calm myself I fixed my face and headed outside allergies were the perfect excuse for red eyes. I walked for over an hour. Mindlessly.
I stiffened my spine, my actress skills needed to be impeccable when I went back upstairs. My sisters were on several chairs sleeping, the waiting room was beautiful and comfortable, but I found little joy or comfort in the area itself.
Eight hours later, the surgeon came out, we were all drained but felt a bolt of energy at his appearance. Your mother is out of surgery, she is in the ICU we are waiting for the swelling to go down so she can naturally wake up. We nodded and thanked the surgeon.
The next morning we arrived before visiting hours (when you have a large hospital and only two visitors are permitted you quickly learn that by hopping from one building to the next you can go anywhere) We walked in my mom opened her eyes she frowned. She put her hand up to the bandage that partially obscured her eyes. Before we could say anything she demanded in righteous indignation: Who won the game last night and they need to fix this bandage if I am going to watch my game. The surgeon had just walked in and was going to ask her a series of questions to determine if any mental functioning had been affected. He took one look at my mom, and I could tell he was patting himself on the back. He walked back out of the rooms no questions.
Did I change my mind about working 80 per week and the corner office because of my mom? No. I had already started to suspect that chasing artificial dreams is no different than insomnia.
I think I learned in that one tumultuous year that life is so unpredictable that trying to nail it down is like trying to embrace the wind a beautiful but impossible idea.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Label me baby
Labels! Get your red hot labels right here!
Step right up! Are you short? Tall? Thin? Big? Blonde? Redhead? Brunette? Smart? Dumb? Genius? Artist? Soulful? Religious? Spiritual?
You don't know how to label yourself? Well sit back, I will help you.
Labels are a capricious thing they are transient like clouds on a tropical island. The label can be pinned, glued, smeared or tossed at you. Some labels even stick for life.
Want an insta-label (yes I made that up) Walk into your coffee shop tomorrow morning smile and say hello. People will ask you why you are so talkative bam you got your first label of the day. But don't worry as you walk down the street with your coffee cup in hand as you walk by all the folks trying to get to the office in time in the space of a nano second they will seize you up and decide that you work in an office or retail or you are an artist. All these labels and you don't even know it.
I sometimes wonder what society would look like if we didn't carry these labels. How would we respond when asked: What is Jane like? What do you think of John? I wonder why we find such comfort in labels that are as useful as disposable napkins during a rainstorm.
There is one label I wouldn't mind having: "She always tried to her best for those around her."
So what is your label?
Step right up! Are you short? Tall? Thin? Big? Blonde? Redhead? Brunette? Smart? Dumb? Genius? Artist? Soulful? Religious? Spiritual?
You don't know how to label yourself? Well sit back, I will help you.
Labels are a capricious thing they are transient like clouds on a tropical island. The label can be pinned, glued, smeared or tossed at you. Some labels even stick for life.
Want an insta-label (yes I made that up) Walk into your coffee shop tomorrow morning smile and say hello. People will ask you why you are so talkative bam you got your first label of the day. But don't worry as you walk down the street with your coffee cup in hand as you walk by all the folks trying to get to the office in time in the space of a nano second they will seize you up and decide that you work in an office or retail or you are an artist. All these labels and you don't even know it.
I sometimes wonder what society would look like if we didn't carry these labels. How would we respond when asked: What is Jane like? What do you think of John? I wonder why we find such comfort in labels that are as useful as disposable napkins during a rainstorm.
There is one label I wouldn't mind having: "She always tried to her best for those around her."
So what is your label?
Monday, May 6, 2013
The park in the summer
I promised myself I would not turn into a navel-gazing self-involved blow hard. So you will either forgive me or skip this post.
Summer meant the end of school. It meant the end pretending to pay attention. Summer meant the ability to physically move. Don't get me wrong I went to school when Phys. Ed was mandatory. Young people have quick silver running their veins not blood only being allowed to move for prescribe period of time is torture. Summer meant not having to parse and understand what my classmates meant when they cracked a joke or told a story.
Summer meant the park not just any park but "THE PARK" Inwood Hill Park. Inwood Hill Park once the home to Shorakapok Native Americans who called Inwood Hill home up until the 17th century. Go to Inwood today follow the trail up to the caves and you can see drawings made by the members of the Shorakapok tribe. You can pick up shards of pottery and other clues to the past. History of Inwood Hill Park
Inwood has a particular perfume in the summer. The grass smells so sweet and lush that it is impossible not roll around. Flowers peak out and snatch your glance before a bumble bee crosses your path letting you know the bee and not you had the right of way. Running up and down the hill felt like the opportunity for us humans to spontaneously evolve and sprout wings to fly. The pond with its brackish water home to ducks, geese, egrets and other avian denizens haughtily line up waiting see who will bring the best seeds, breads and other tasty treats.
And as I stood in the park, the concrete jungle would always disappear, I would look up a hawk and an American Eagle were vying for some dinner. Time felt like a paradox after an entire day of sun the gloaming shadows transformed the park into Little Red Riding Hoods adventure. The fireflies, lightening bugs would pop and show a flash as they sought each other out to mate. I would lay on the grass intently staring at the flowers watching as they miraculously closed up shop for the evening. The next day I would run back to the park lay in the same spot to watch the same flower open up and greet the sun.
In the distance the sound of competing baseball games on the huge playing field would waft down like a soft drone. The bat connecting with the ball allowed me to keep track of the game without watching.
When I was sufficiently tired from running like a wild child. I would head to the swings. My heart pumping harder than my legs I knew I had to get higher I needed to touch the sky the clouds were made of cotton candy and I knew that if I could just taste it once that the park would live forever. When my arms and legs would give out after an hour I would let the momentum rock me back and forth. My mind would spin out, what would I be when I grew up. Would I be able to swing? Why didn't adults use the swings in the park. Why were boys and girls always hiding in the bushes kissing.
Then my stomach would throw a full mutinous rebellion hunger would always win and then it would be time to go home. To take a shower and let the water rinse away the day's experience. I would lie in bed in anticipation because tomorrow we would go back to the park.
If I could do it all over again, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat scabbed knees, scratches, bug bites and all.
Summer meant the end of school. It meant the end pretending to pay attention. Summer meant the ability to physically move. Don't get me wrong I went to school when Phys. Ed was mandatory. Young people have quick silver running their veins not blood only being allowed to move for prescribe period of time is torture. Summer meant not having to parse and understand what my classmates meant when they cracked a joke or told a story.
Summer meant the park not just any park but "THE PARK" Inwood Hill Park. Inwood Hill Park once the home to Shorakapok Native Americans who called Inwood Hill home up until the 17th century. Go to Inwood today follow the trail up to the caves and you can see drawings made by the members of the Shorakapok tribe. You can pick up shards of pottery and other clues to the past. History of Inwood Hill Park
Inwood has a particular perfume in the summer. The grass smells so sweet and lush that it is impossible not roll around. Flowers peak out and snatch your glance before a bumble bee crosses your path letting you know the bee and not you had the right of way. Running up and down the hill felt like the opportunity for us humans to spontaneously evolve and sprout wings to fly. The pond with its brackish water home to ducks, geese, egrets and other avian denizens haughtily line up waiting see who will bring the best seeds, breads and other tasty treats.
And as I stood in the park, the concrete jungle would always disappear, I would look up a hawk and an American Eagle were vying for some dinner. Time felt like a paradox after an entire day of sun the gloaming shadows transformed the park into Little Red Riding Hoods adventure. The fireflies, lightening bugs would pop and show a flash as they sought each other out to mate. I would lay on the grass intently staring at the flowers watching as they miraculously closed up shop for the evening. The next day I would run back to the park lay in the same spot to watch the same flower open up and greet the sun.
In the distance the sound of competing baseball games on the huge playing field would waft down like a soft drone. The bat connecting with the ball allowed me to keep track of the game without watching.
When I was sufficiently tired from running like a wild child. I would head to the swings. My heart pumping harder than my legs I knew I had to get higher I needed to touch the sky the clouds were made of cotton candy and I knew that if I could just taste it once that the park would live forever. When my arms and legs would give out after an hour I would let the momentum rock me back and forth. My mind would spin out, what would I be when I grew up. Would I be able to swing? Why didn't adults use the swings in the park. Why were boys and girls always hiding in the bushes kissing.
Then my stomach would throw a full mutinous rebellion hunger would always win and then it would be time to go home. To take a shower and let the water rinse away the day's experience. I would lie in bed in anticipation because tomorrow we would go back to the park.
If I could do it all over again, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat scabbed knees, scratches, bug bites and all.
Life is stranger than fiction
The year was oh I am not sure of the exact year. It was the 80's and I was a kid. The summer night was as the norm for NYC hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. Tension was thicker than normal because the Yankees were trailing by one with bases loaded 2 outs and the next at bat was known to choke. We lived on the second floor of a pre-war apartment building. Our building was located on an Avenue for those who don't know NYC avenues are longer than city street.
Not wanting to torture myself I joined my sister who is a year younger than me on thebalcony fire escape. Derek the son of the family who we shared the fire escape was already outside with his dad Eugene. Eugene had decided that to protect his health he would skip the rest of the Yankee game so he angled his TV so he could sit on the fire escape and pretend he didn't care one way or another.
Derek, my sister and I were joking, goofing and clowning around, Derek became serious and said it wasn't fair we had sisters and he was an only kid. I thought he had it the other way around he was lucky to be an only child.
Derek insisted that I admit that having sisters was fun and of course that left me with the only response of a bratty snotty kid. I told him to leave me alone and turned my back to him and my sister.
Annoyed and peeved at first I didn't register that Derek, Wendy and Eugene had stopped talking. Because I was the proud owner of what kids at the time called coke bottle glasses it took a full minute for my eyes to process what I was seeing. Yes, it was a group of people, and then the group swelled in size.
Soon it looked like a parade only without floats, balloons, bands or a purpose. I laid down flat on the fire escape and shoved my head through the ladder. I was only about 8 feet above the people walking in the street and I caught snatches of conversation:
"I have never seen anything like it"
"I have been following it for 10 blocks"
"Where do you think it is going"
Not daring to move to hear more I used my foot to nudge my sister, thinking that as always she was missing out on something important because of her foolish games.
I poked again, nothing. A third time Ipoked kicked, exasperated. No reaction at that point I was angry. I sat up, Eugene, Derek and my sister mouths hung open, their eyes were glazed and turned up. I followed the line of sight and was confronted by three massive airships. It couldn't be real, airplanes make an awful racket, I know because our section of the city was a busy "flight high way."
My mom was always incensed when the overhead air planes rattled our cups and plates.
And yet here I was sitting on our fire escape and directly above our buildings were three air crafts circular with a ring of lights. The ships traveled slowly like blimps. I had seen plenty of blimps at the beach and Yankee stadium. Ten long minutes passed and finally the ships were no longer visible. We sat on the fire escape not saying anything. My sister the more adventurous one decided that she no longer wanted to be on the fire escape and went inside. Derek and Eugene also quietly went into their apartment. I watched the dwindling crowd for another few seconds before I to slipped back inside.
A year later...
Another brutal summer was upon us our parents gave us some Italian ices and told us to eat them on the fire escape so we wouldn't make a mess inside. Out of the blue Derek turned to my sister and I asked: "do you remember the funny spaceships we saw last summer" For a moment my sister and I froze as if a movie had been paused, and within a finger snap. We both said yes. We sat there our ices melting as realized that it had taken a full year for us to remember our close encounter of the whatever kind.
I don't know what we saw,
I only know 3 things
1) the three crafts were large all three covered the avenue East to West.
2) they moved silently
3) the shape was not tube-like an airplane.
Yes I know I said 3 but the fourth is the most important:
4) I have never seen an air craft like that not in movies, air shows, TV, museums, documentaries the Internet etc.
What do you think?
Not wanting to torture myself I joined my sister who is a year younger than me on the
Derek, my sister and I were joking, goofing and clowning around, Derek became serious and said it wasn't fair we had sisters and he was an only kid. I thought he had it the other way around he was lucky to be an only child.
Derek insisted that I admit that having sisters was fun and of course that left me with the only response of a bratty snotty kid. I told him to leave me alone and turned my back to him and my sister.
Annoyed and peeved at first I didn't register that Derek, Wendy and Eugene had stopped talking. Because I was the proud owner of what kids at the time called coke bottle glasses it took a full minute for my eyes to process what I was seeing. Yes, it was a group of people, and then the group swelled in size.
Soon it looked like a parade only without floats, balloons, bands or a purpose. I laid down flat on the fire escape and shoved my head through the ladder. I was only about 8 feet above the people walking in the street and I caught snatches of conversation:
"I have never seen anything like it"
"I have been following it for 10 blocks"
"Where do you think it is going"
Not daring to move to hear more I used my foot to nudge my sister, thinking that as always she was missing out on something important because of her foolish games.
I poked again, nothing. A third time I
My mom was always incensed when the overhead air planes rattled our cups and plates.
And yet here I was sitting on our fire escape and directly above our buildings were three air crafts circular with a ring of lights. The ships traveled slowly like blimps. I had seen plenty of blimps at the beach and Yankee stadium. Ten long minutes passed and finally the ships were no longer visible. We sat on the fire escape not saying anything. My sister the more adventurous one decided that she no longer wanted to be on the fire escape and went inside. Derek and Eugene also quietly went into their apartment. I watched the dwindling crowd for another few seconds before I to slipped back inside.
A year later...
Another brutal summer was upon us our parents gave us some Italian ices and told us to eat them on the fire escape so we wouldn't make a mess inside. Out of the blue Derek turned to my sister and I asked: "do you remember the funny spaceships we saw last summer" For a moment my sister and I froze as if a movie had been paused, and within a finger snap. We both said yes. We sat there our ices melting as realized that it had taken a full year for us to remember our close encounter of the whatever kind.
I don't know what we saw,
I only know 3 things
1) the three crafts were large all three covered the avenue East to West.
2) they moved silently
3) the shape was not tube-like an airplane.
Yes I know I said 3 but the fourth is the most important:
4) I have never seen an air craft like that not in movies, air shows, TV, museums, documentaries the Internet etc.
What do you think?
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
May Day May Day Woman Down request for immediate assistance
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tI1_KlO6xI
Today is the first day of May, in the grand scheme of things today's date is meaningless. I flipped the page on my wall calendar, yes I actually purchase a wall calendar every year. I find the visual flow of days to be both therapeutic and motivating.
The calendar reminds me that I am like a gallon of milk, only my expiration date is unknown to me. Much like taking the tentative whiff from the milk carton before pouring any, I greet each day with a tentative sniff. Yes I have not expired.
I look at the date on the wall, the voice in my head does the correct calculation almost half the year is gone. Now I flip back and look at the previous months reviewing milestones and achievements why look at that I ovulated on the 14th of last month. I am still of child-bearing age. Then I flip the pages forward. I stare at each page silently for a few minutes as if I was a medium conducting a seance. What will happen on August 9th of this year? Will I remember on August 9th that on May 1st I was thinking of this particular day?
I flip the calendar page back to May, my mind travels. My May 1st is both different and the same for everyone alive at this moment in time.
I touch the day, and as is my ritual at the end of each day I draw a line through the calendar signifying its death. Each new day is pregnant with opportunities. As I draw the line I am struck by the power I hold in my hands. I hold the power to mold time to my whims and demands.
My eyes goes back to the crossed out previous day and I realize that time has the power to mold me its whims and demands. In that moment I realize that my to do list, my wishes and desires are an attempt to make a stamp where a stamp already exists.
My thoughts drift back to my appointment on Monday, I realize that touching the Monday that just passed would be more difficult than walking on water and staying dry.
When I was in the fourth grade we had a snow storm in NYC, the storm itself was not to bad but half the class was absent. The teacher knew that lessons would be pointless so let us have a free day. We had an opportunity to read books, do artwork, practice music etc anything was permissible as long as we behaved. I sat at my desk pulled out my notebook and calculated my age for the next fifty years. Behind my thick coke bottle glasses my eyes scrunched in wonder at the year 2000.
Would we have flying cars like the Jetsons? Would we make contact with aliens? Would it be possible to be inside the TV show instead of just sitting and watching it? Would books be holograms that would play like a movie. When my mom picked me up I asked her all these questions and more, thankfully my mom understood I didn't want answers I was to excited about the future.
So yes I am excited about August 9th, it will probably be blazing hot, sunny, cloudy or rainy. I will probably wish it was cooler and odds are that nothing will happen on August 9th to stand out in my memory 20 years from now.
The beauty of life is living for all the amazing unknown possibilities.
Today is the first day of May, in the grand scheme of things today's date is meaningless. I flipped the page on my wall calendar, yes I actually purchase a wall calendar every year. I find the visual flow of days to be both therapeutic and motivating.
The calendar reminds me that I am like a gallon of milk, only my expiration date is unknown to me. Much like taking the tentative whiff from the milk carton before pouring any, I greet each day with a tentative sniff. Yes I have not expired.
I look at the date on the wall, the voice in my head does the correct calculation almost half the year is gone. Now I flip back and look at the previous months reviewing milestones and achievements why look at that I ovulated on the 14th of last month. I am still of child-bearing age. Then I flip the pages forward. I stare at each page silently for a few minutes as if I was a medium conducting a seance. What will happen on August 9th of this year? Will I remember on August 9th that on May 1st I was thinking of this particular day?
I flip the calendar page back to May, my mind travels. My May 1st is both different and the same for everyone alive at this moment in time.
I touch the day, and as is my ritual at the end of each day I draw a line through the calendar signifying its death. Each new day is pregnant with opportunities. As I draw the line I am struck by the power I hold in my hands. I hold the power to mold time to my whims and demands.
My eyes goes back to the crossed out previous day and I realize that time has the power to mold me its whims and demands. In that moment I realize that my to do list, my wishes and desires are an attempt to make a stamp where a stamp already exists.
My thoughts drift back to my appointment on Monday, I realize that touching the Monday that just passed would be more difficult than walking on water and staying dry.
When I was in the fourth grade we had a snow storm in NYC, the storm itself was not to bad but half the class was absent. The teacher knew that lessons would be pointless so let us have a free day. We had an opportunity to read books, do artwork, practice music etc anything was permissible as long as we behaved. I sat at my desk pulled out my notebook and calculated my age for the next fifty years. Behind my thick coke bottle glasses my eyes scrunched in wonder at the year 2000.
Would we have flying cars like the Jetsons? Would we make contact with aliens? Would it be possible to be inside the TV show instead of just sitting and watching it? Would books be holograms that would play like a movie. When my mom picked me up I asked her all these questions and more, thankfully my mom understood I didn't want answers I was to excited about the future.
So yes I am excited about August 9th, it will probably be blazing hot, sunny, cloudy or rainy. I will probably wish it was cooler and odds are that nothing will happen on August 9th to stand out in my memory 20 years from now.
The beauty of life is living for all the amazing unknown possibilities.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Carousels
I was 6 years old, my sisters were super excited about our trip to Coney Island. I was not as excited. I was terrified when we arrived at the amusement park so many terrifying sights, loud noises and to many people.
When my mom placed my sisters on the carousel they squealed with delight, I had an epic melt-down, I let loose an ear popping terror filled screech. My mom had the operator stop the ride and pulled me off. All the kids watched as my mom pulled me down from the frozen glassy-eyed monster that had no resemblance to a beautiful horse. Humiliation and embarrassment yup felt it like a tight scarf cutting off my oxygen supply.
Why did my brain jump back 100 years ago as I sit here now? I feel frustrated. I am trying to pull together a plan. A personal plan of action and yet my mind goes back to Coney Island to the bobbing horses as they lumber in that slow circle the cacophony of the evil jingle is rattling in my brain. I am sitting here 3 decades later and I can smell popcorn, hot-dogs, cotton candy and the beautiful smell that only happens in the summer when the air becomes heavy, sweet and green.
I am lost on this mental time-path, I see everyone lining up for the carousel ride, I see the big brass ring. Every so often an emboldened individual will try and grab the brass ring.
The carousel does not speed up or slow down it goes in a circle, bobbing up and down to the jingle that pierces my eardrum. I see the people standing, waiting impatiently so that they too can jump on those frozen caricatures masquerading as horse. They stand in line impatient, they too want to go around in a circle.
The jingle winds down the horses slow signifying the end of the ride, everyone is where they started. Impatiently those that waited push so that they can also jump on the carousel.
I can feel their impatience they want to spend time going around in a circle. I can see the covetous eyes that follow and look longingly each time they pass the brass ring. Another brave soul will reach out to grab it. So close and empty-handed. The rider behind breathes a sigh of relief thy didn't get but now they have a shot at grabbing the brass ring. Each successive failure only creates more longing to nowhere.
I told my mom I didn't want to ride the carousel. As I sit here in this mental time traveling expedition I realize I didn't have to step on the carousel to ride it.
And now I have to jump off and hope I land safely.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e68P9QN11zg
When my mom placed my sisters on the carousel they squealed with delight, I had an epic melt-down, I let loose an ear popping terror filled screech. My mom had the operator stop the ride and pulled me off. All the kids watched as my mom pulled me down from the frozen glassy-eyed monster that had no resemblance to a beautiful horse. Humiliation and embarrassment yup felt it like a tight scarf cutting off my oxygen supply.
Why did my brain jump back 100 years ago as I sit here now? I feel frustrated. I am trying to pull together a plan. A personal plan of action and yet my mind goes back to Coney Island to the bobbing horses as they lumber in that slow circle the cacophony of the evil jingle is rattling in my brain. I am sitting here 3 decades later and I can smell popcorn, hot-dogs, cotton candy and the beautiful smell that only happens in the summer when the air becomes heavy, sweet and green.
I am lost on this mental time-path, I see everyone lining up for the carousel ride, I see the big brass ring. Every so often an emboldened individual will try and grab the brass ring.
The carousel does not speed up or slow down it goes in a circle, bobbing up and down to the jingle that pierces my eardrum. I see the people standing, waiting impatiently so that they too can jump on those frozen caricatures masquerading as horse. They stand in line impatient, they too want to go around in a circle.
The jingle winds down the horses slow signifying the end of the ride, everyone is where they started. Impatiently those that waited push so that they can also jump on the carousel.
I can feel their impatience they want to spend time going around in a circle. I can see the covetous eyes that follow and look longingly each time they pass the brass ring. Another brave soul will reach out to grab it. So close and empty-handed. The rider behind breathes a sigh of relief thy didn't get but now they have a shot at grabbing the brass ring. Each successive failure only creates more longing to nowhere.
I told my mom I didn't want to ride the carousel. As I sit here in this mental time traveling expedition I realize I didn't have to step on the carousel to ride it.
And now I have to jump off and hope I land safely.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e68P9QN11zg
Monday, April 29, 2013
I am not old enough
We talk all day and yet our conversations are tossed about like a newspaper on a windy day.
Imagine my surprise today when in the middle of a conversation I contemplated a career change. I made the statement as a joke.
The other person said that is a great idea!
I stopped in my tracks, "woah I am to old!"
"To old for what?" the person asked.
I was stumped, my remarked tossed about like a newspaper on a windy day had been taken seriously and now I am in a quandary.
What is to old? Or not old enough?
Do I make a change or do I stay put?
I only know I am not old enough to quit and give up on dreams. Even if I don't know the dream.
Imagine my surprise today when in the middle of a conversation I contemplated a career change. I made the statement as a joke.
The other person said that is a great idea!
I stopped in my tracks, "woah I am to old!"
"To old for what?" the person asked.
I was stumped, my remarked tossed about like a newspaper on a windy day had been taken seriously and now I am in a quandary.
What is to old? Or not old enough?
Do I make a change or do I stay put?
I only know I am not old enough to quit and give up on dreams. Even if I don't know the dream.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Neglect
The original intent was a mea-culpa regarding neglecting the blog, but then I realized that sounded silly. At the moment I have zero followers and no one would notice if this blog lived or died. I retained the title neglect because it paints a bigger picture of my life.
Neglect is like a cancer that spreads slowly through out the body, it takes a hold of the heart, mind and soul. When neglect burrows its way inside the body excising the wound is painful.
The opposite of neglect is not action, neglect is not passive it is an active endeavor. Neglect requires purposeful planned action.
Neglect comes in many flavors and colors, health, mental, spiritual, faith, determination.
One of the first steps towards working on the cure is knowing the affliction. Knowing where the neglect has occurred and examining it before acting. Mindless action will only spin the wheels with no movement so now I looking all the areas divorcing and uncoupling them from each other. Why? because while they are all inter-dependent they all need proper individual attention to heal the whole.
If you read this for the giggles or boredom either way thanks for stopping by.
Neglect is like a cancer that spreads slowly through out the body, it takes a hold of the heart, mind and soul. When neglect burrows its way inside the body excising the wound is painful.
The opposite of neglect is not action, neglect is not passive it is an active endeavor. Neglect requires purposeful planned action.
Neglect comes in many flavors and colors, health, mental, spiritual, faith, determination.
One of the first steps towards working on the cure is knowing the affliction. Knowing where the neglect has occurred and examining it before acting. Mindless action will only spin the wheels with no movement so now I looking all the areas divorcing and uncoupling them from each other. Why? because while they are all inter-dependent they all need proper individual attention to heal the whole.
If you read this for the giggles or boredom either way thanks for stopping by.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Memory
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2njHW9ydWs
We give names to fill the empty void, feeling unsettled with our inability to name that which we don't understand. We create words to describe that vague unsettled feeling, we call it serendipity, coincidence, chance, luck, God, spirits, angels. The names are endless to combat the uncomfortable not-knowing.
We all search, it is our nature it is our destiny, to attempt to name the unknowable. I call it memory. Before my great-great-great grandparents were born I existed, the wheel of fortune had already begun before my distant ancestors scraped by on their knuckles.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2njHW9ydWsWith each generation when they were no more when even the dust that was once their bones was no more they passed on something to each successive generation, they passed on their memories. Our DNA, RNA, our molecules, the air is heavy with the collective knowledge of all memories.
When I feel love, anger, sadness, the past has woken, passing down learned lessons. The past creates signposts in the confusing landscape mapping out and bringing to light paths and roads.
Stored in my memory banks is the knowledge that those who will come in the future will need. I am just a memory like those before and those after me.
We give names to fill the empty void, feeling unsettled with our inability to name that which we don't understand. We create words to describe that vague unsettled feeling, we call it serendipity, coincidence, chance, luck, God, spirits, angels. The names are endless to combat the uncomfortable not-knowing.
We all search, it is our nature it is our destiny, to attempt to name the unknowable. I call it memory. Before my great-great-great grandparents were born I existed, the wheel of fortune had already begun before my distant ancestors scraped by on their knuckles.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2njHW9ydWsWith each generation when they were no more when even the dust that was once their bones was no more they passed on something to each successive generation, they passed on their memories. Our DNA, RNA, our molecules, the air is heavy with the collective knowledge of all memories.
When I feel love, anger, sadness, the past has woken, passing down learned lessons. The past creates signposts in the confusing landscape mapping out and bringing to light paths and roads.
Stored in my memory banks is the knowledge that those who will come in the future will need. I am just a memory like those before and those after me.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Easter, Sister Mary-Elizabeth, Noah the Ark and raisin bread filled with threats.
I was made to go to Sunday school. As you can imagine I was a bit of trouble maker Sister Mary-Elizabeth did not like the fact that I was always asking why?
Why did he part the sea? Why didn't he just build some boats? Why can we only eat fish on Good Friday? Why is it called Good Friday?
Imagine Sister Mary Elizabeth's delight when she told us the story of Noah and the Ark and I applauded (she did a great job narrating that story)
Her eyes narrowed she was waiting for me to start with the Whys?
I had no why! Noah rocked! He got two of each animal! He was a real cupid? The ultimate matchmaker. Sister Mary Elizabeth informed my mother that as usual I was not grasping Catholic dogma. What is dogma? My mother gave me the look. I zipped my lip.
Back to Noah, I understood Noah, here was a man with a plan, a plan to ensure that even animals not feel alone! Noah was my hero! I wanted more info on Noah how did he tend to the animals, did the animals fall in love with each other, did they make babies? Imagine the look on my poor mother's face as I ask her all these questions while standing at the bakery line for our raisin bread. My mother hissed at me that if I didn't stop with the question no raisin bread for me.
Wow I had crossed a line no raisin bread, that threat had never been issued even when I committed the ultimate faux pas regarding the ash on the forehead by telling my mom that we were going to be murdered because we were marked with a sign.
Come to think of it I wonder how my mom managed to stay looking so young for so long with me as her daughter but I digress.
Back to Noah, I love G+ and social media because it gives me an opportunity to meet and interact with other brilliant individuals and create daily stories.
And lately I have been kicking around the idea of finding a partner in crime to write a story. Now if only Noah could just hook me up with my writing counterpart.
P.S. I am not religious, if you are religious that is AWESOME but PLEASE KEEP IT TO YOURSELFF
P.P.S if you are also looking for another half to write something funny, witty entertaining drop me a line.
Ciao until next time.
Why did he part the sea? Why didn't he just build some boats? Why can we only eat fish on Good Friday? Why is it called Good Friday?
Imagine Sister Mary Elizabeth's delight when she told us the story of Noah and the Ark and I applauded (she did a great job narrating that story)
Her eyes narrowed she was waiting for me to start with the Whys?
I had no why! Noah rocked! He got two of each animal! He was a real cupid? The ultimate matchmaker. Sister Mary Elizabeth informed my mother that as usual I was not grasping Catholic dogma. What is dogma? My mother gave me the look. I zipped my lip.
Back to Noah, I understood Noah, here was a man with a plan, a plan to ensure that even animals not feel alone! Noah was my hero! I wanted more info on Noah how did he tend to the animals, did the animals fall in love with each other, did they make babies? Imagine the look on my poor mother's face as I ask her all these questions while standing at the bakery line for our raisin bread. My mother hissed at me that if I didn't stop with the question no raisin bread for me.
Wow I had crossed a line no raisin bread, that threat had never been issued even when I committed the ultimate faux pas regarding the ash on the forehead by telling my mom that we were going to be murdered because we were marked with a sign.
Come to think of it I wonder how my mom managed to stay looking so young for so long with me as her daughter but I digress.
Back to Noah, I love G+ and social media because it gives me an opportunity to meet and interact with other brilliant individuals and create daily stories.
And lately I have been kicking around the idea of finding a partner in crime to write a story. Now if only Noah could just hook me up with my writing counterpart.
P.S. I am not religious, if you are religious that is AWESOME but PLEASE KEEP IT TO YOURSELFF
P.P.S if you are also looking for another half to write something funny, witty entertaining drop me a line.
Ciao until next time.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Who owns me?
Sometimes a thought gets a hold of me and it burrows in my brain like the little hermit crabs on the beach.
I don't know when the idea first appeared, or how it became stuck. But I wonder who owns me?
I know I am free to make decisions, I make choices all day long, but when I stop to think of those choices none of them are completely free of external forces and entanglements. Time is my slave master and pimp.
Work is the judge on quality and output.
How is my value determined? If I say enough does that mean I am free to do within (legal) limits as I wish?
How do I know my real: desires, wishes, hopes, dreams independent of society?
I don't know when the idea first appeared, or how it became stuck. But I wonder who owns me?
I know I am free to make decisions, I make choices all day long, but when I stop to think of those choices none of them are completely free of external forces and entanglements. Time is my slave master and pimp.
Work is the judge on quality and output.
How is my value determined? If I say enough does that mean I am free to do within (legal) limits as I wish?
How do I know my real: desires, wishes, hopes, dreams independent of society?
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Thank goodness my sister can't spell to save her life
Reading an email, text or web post by my sister usually involves a few false starts, squinting, silently sounding out the word and looking at the entire sentence to understand what message she is trying to convey. I can honestly say that when my sister sends me a text I normally have to call her back just to ask her what the hell she meant.
Here is a perfect example of one of my sisters most repeated and frequent typo: in joy = enjoy. It took me a while to figure she meant enjoy and every time I corrected the typo. Every time I corrected the typo she responded "u know what I meant"
And I always answer back "yeah but it took me a while."
But today I started to think about it what if she really means in joy? Some how in joy sounds better than enjoy. In joy sounds like all kinds of marvelous wonderful things. All of a sudden I to wanted to "in joy" I was tempted to even ask her how I could go accomplish the in joy task.
Then I realized my sister was already in joy and if I had come to understand in joy I was half way to understanding its vague yet delicious meaning.
Granted I have no right to correct any one's spelling, I have more red underlined words than average. But now I am beginning to wonder when can a misspelled word become something greater?
http://www.thejoyhouse.com/LOGO%20Give%20Joy%20Get%20Joy.JPG
Here is a perfect example of one of my sisters most repeated and frequent typo: in joy = enjoy. It took me a while to figure she meant enjoy and every time I corrected the typo. Every time I corrected the typo she responded "u know what I meant"
And I always answer back "yeah but it took me a while."
But today I started to think about it what if she really means in joy? Some how in joy sounds better than enjoy. In joy sounds like all kinds of marvelous wonderful things. All of a sudden I to wanted to "in joy" I was tempted to even ask her how I could go accomplish the in joy task.
Then I realized my sister was already in joy and if I had come to understand in joy I was half way to understanding its vague yet delicious meaning.
Granted I have no right to correct any one's spelling, I have more red underlined words than average. But now I am beginning to wonder when can a misspelled word become something greater?
http://www.thejoyhouse.com/LOGO%20Give%20Joy%20Get%20Joy.JPG
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