I am Ancient History

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I know, I know. You already knew that.

But I’m thinking just now of how little I fit into the here and now.

There’s so much that was part of my everyday milieu right up to today that Those Young People I see around now have never even heard of, unless they’re youthful fans of archaeology. Stuff that I thought was hip and cool and fabulous is not only dated, it’s just plain unknown anymore.

I think I might be a science project. It’s just possible that I am being studied by aliens, or at least by the vast numbers of people so much smarter and also younger than me. And they are doomed to be disappointed. Those who study me and my life will plumb the depths of my personal history, kicking up heaps of mouldering dust and struggling with seemingly endless minutiae that could lead to important and fascinating factoids about existentially important stuff, or at least about me, only to wash up, time and again, on an equally dim and arid shore of obsolescence and insignificance.

It’s not that I mind, really. I assume this must be the case, in fact, for most people of every generation. Most of us must feel something like this, whether it’s true or not. We’ll all find there’s a great deal that’s very quickly forgotten as soon as we’ve lived it. If anyone ever delves into my little history, there will be a whole lot that looks, yes, alien to them in its unfamiliar antiquity, even if it is rather recently past in real time. I may not be at the peak of what was hip and cool and fabulous any more than I once was, but I can pretty well rock the role of living dinosaur.

Digital illustration: Artifacts

I am the sole artifact in my own little segment of history.

Confounded Conversationalists

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For all of the talking that we humanoids do, we certainly get very little actual Stuff resolved. Our individual biases and filters make it far too easy to hear things with a skew that makes every verbal interaction less of a conversation and more of a convoluted Baroque dance performance. It’s not just that I often realize, after having haggled at length over any given topic with anybody from my husband on outward to complete strangers, that we are in fact sharing the same view, but stating it so differently that we might as well be talking entirely different languages. It’s also not easily brushed off as a problem specific to age, sex, political or religious affiliations, educational status, culture or any of those other Issues we get hung up on all the time; those can play into the ‘failure to communicate‘ plenty, to be sure, but I think there might be a little something broken or at least unfinished in us that makes us almost preternaturally unable to fully and clearly communicate with each other on a consistent basis.

Photo montage: Grizzolar Talk

Does my commentary seem especially grisly to you, or do you just automatically give it the cold shoulder?

We can do it. If we simply couldn’t, not ever, why then we wouldn’t know the difference. So it’s silly of us not to spend at least as much energy on learning to communicate with each other better as we do on miscommunicating or simply failing to even try. I am past-master at garbling what I meant to say, or saying things in such a way that everybody else on the planet hears something different from what I thought I was expressing—I’ve long since outed myself for having that particular foot-in-mouth gift. I guess that means I had better clean out my ears, open my heart, get my brains in better order, and let other, more skillful communicators do the talking more often, and just sit back and listen and learn. Though of course there’s still the possibility that I’m hearing it fine yet completely misinterpreting the information. It goes that way a lot in my particular part of the planet.

While I was Sleeping (It Off)…

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I’ve only twice thus far in my happy, healthy life been under anesthesia, at least when I was old enough to remember it. The first was during college, when I had my third molars removed, an act that I consider was more about wisdom on my part than on the molars’, despite their being commonly named “wisdom teeth”. It was good preventive medicine in my case, being the only invasive procedure I’ve ever had to have a dentist do and as a bonus, keeping me from getting them infected or impacted or, quelle horreur!, having them come in by shoving my naturally straight other teeth askew. I must have had a terrific anesthesiologist, because I don’t remember any particular suffering during or after the event, other than an unpleasant reaction to the first and only pain pill I took upon waking, and I was well enough after a day of devoted ice-packing by my mom to venture out to the mall the next day with the family, and dine comfortably on crisp green salad and toast.

The second time was when I underwent that happy coming-of-age ritual, the half-century tune-up of my chassis when I was given what felt like a really delightful extra night’s sleep so as to while away the time during which I had my colonoscopy. I, unlike other people, have no interest whatsoever in watching myself on TV in the process of receiving medical attention of any sort. Despite that potential glamor and entertainment of that approach, I felt myself cheerily fortunate in having a splendid nap instead, not to mention getting the desired clean bill of health in the bargain.

Though I’ve had limited personal experience with going under anesthetic, I certainly know plenty of people who’ve had all sorts of adventures with it, both good and bad. And I am all the more pleased, on knowing some of the tales of hallucinatory glory, that I have nothing to show for my own such trips but a gleaming set of straight choppers in my healthy jaws and an equally pristine stretch of plumbing in my abdominal regions. And I plan to have no further need of being anesthetized any time again soon, pretty please. Though I truly appreciate good medicine, I appreciate even more not needing any.Digital illustration + text: Psychedelia

It was Only a Dream…

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Photo: Waking UnderwaterA short meditation: The Oarsman

When I opened my eyes, I saw a cedar boat ahead, a craft of sleek and patinated wood; I was ashore, looking, watching without knowing why, standing on the verge with the clear salt sea touching my feet and on its cold breath casting up an offering of tide-polished stones and shells moved into patterns like a prayer shawl.

The cedar boat drew near, and in the boat, a man whose solemn joy preceded him and made my thoughts lie still.

Only the scent of cedar broke the salty air. I waded out to catch the prow and saw the oarsman watching me, and I was humbled but not afraid. He said nothing. I didn’t think to say a word, myself, but caught the boat and slowly pulled it ashore.Photo: The Scent of Cedars

The oarsman wore a long superlative braid that rose and fell on his breast; I made fast the boat to a spike of driftwood at the verge, tying the painter in a braid as like his own as I could make it.

When he stepped from the boat, the oarsman put his broad hand on my head, wordlessly, and I felt, too, his solemn joy.Photo: Solemn Joy

Here’s News: Shoes Lose

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It’s probably nigh unto heretical to say so, but despite my stereotypical feminine admiration for shoes and my not-so-secret desire to own a zillion pairs of pretty ones, I seldom bend so far as to wear any that aren’t mighty comfortable in real life. Why, I have been known to fall right off of them and skin my precious knees whenever there was a handy hole in the pavement to snag my heel in for such purposes. But I hate pain, even the relatively minor pain of standing upright in high heels, so I really don’t often put myself in such danger.

In a similar vein, at times I am willing to go so far as to put on a little eyeliner, or suck in my gut to get a too-tight waistband to zip, or even give myself a semi-polished pedicure when I’m wearing sandals, but if time is pressed or I’m not in the mood, I’ll certainly never be bothered with such efforts. I feel more than a little ridiculous when I’m dolled up very far, and mostly I’m much too cheap and lazy and, well, un-girly, I guess, to enjoy the process, the expense or the artificiality of being ultra-feminine. Plus, there’s the risk of the people who know me best having a heart attack if I go all ruffly and spangly on ’em. That would just be mean and selfish on my part.Drawing + text: Shoes Lose

Foodie Tuesday: Let Me Call You Sweetheart

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When you’re good enough, you don’t have to be trendy to have staying power. The classics never go away; a fabulous patisserie is forever in fashion, because well-crafted sweets have endless appeal. They may have waves of popularity over time, like the current euphoria over macarons that belies their long history or the delight of the general public on discovering in latter years that chocolate is not entirely a naughty indulgence. But what is truly tasty will never entirely fade from view, especially in the kitchens or patisseries where the expert practitioners of their making reside.
Digitally painted photo: The Cupcake Trend

My sweet tooth knows few bounds. I love fat in most of its terribly delicious forms. When those two attributes of sweetness and fat combine so fortuitously as they can in desserts and baked goods, in little snacks or large displays of ostentatious celebratory food, I am unlikely to resist, unless I’m having an unusual fit of good manners when there’s not quite enough to go around or my calorie-conscience is working overtime to knit me a hair shirt that squeezes my increasingly well-rounded form.
Digitally painted photo: Patisserie

As a visual artist and prettiness-addict, the moment when my resistance is most likely guaranteed to ebb and to fail is when I am standing, rapt, in front of a pastry case at the bakery. If I had any real moral strength in this regard, I would at least be inclined to pardon the beauties beckoning therein from my ravages for the sake of preserving their great visual appeal as long as possible. But I have none, so it’s more than likely I will excuse myself by reminding any fellow admirers that the visual attractions of food are limited by their shelf life, which is briefer indeed than my own. Even if I have eaten more darling pastries than is remotely good for me.

Farewell for now, sweet readers. If you should grow any sweeter, you might be in danger of being bit by me on a dessert rampage. For now, I’ll choose to take the precaution of stuffing my mouth full of marsipan bløtkake [a favorite, Norwegian marzipan-covered cream cake], if only for your safety.

Fools & Their Followers

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I will never pretend that I am neither gullible nor misinformed. I am one or both of those on a very consistent basis, if not constantly. All I can say in defense of myself, with all of these lacks and lapses, is that I continue to ask questions, try to learn, and hope for the patience and kindness of my teachers. And for the ability to accept new knowledge and make the changes it requires, accordingly.

Photo + text: Fools & Their FollowersPower to the Precedent

Contradicting every rule

Is, sure, the hallmark of a fool

—Except in times and places where

The rules are stupid and unfair—

The problem, clearly: to define

Whose rules are foolish,

—yours

—or mine

Just My Cup of Tea

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Digital illustration + text: It's Never Merely a Sip or a Nip

Washed in Light

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The sunlight that pours in, falling over the sash like crisp, clear water, washing the walls, spilling over the coverlet and floor, refreshes like no rain has in years. I acknowledge the need for, even the longing, sometimes, for rain, but nothing comes close in rain, at certain other times, to giving me the reviving strength I find in showers of sunlight.Photo + text: Nearing Heaven

Pessimism is Its Own Reward

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—or recompense, at least!Digital illustration from photos: Gloom = Doom

Pessimism is Its Own Reward