Winter sort of brought life to a crawl this year. The ground was covered in jagged ice for months, and every task became an undertaking. My brain went through a shallow freeze sometime in February, but still we managed to while away the winter in high spirits. I'm not sorry to see you go, Winter that lasted five months this year, but I do thank you for some good times, which I'll append here, just to remind myself why it's always worth it to slog through even when you don't feel like it!
Highlights:
Snowy hike through the icy canyons of Turkey Run State Park and a winter picnic
Getting a new gas fireplace and cozying up night after night (Christmas present from Larry)
Starting a new job!
Anniversary party for Heather and Rick downtown with friends
Dinner party with Irene and friends at Chrissy's
Saw many plays and performances
"Under the Lintel Tree" at IndyFringe (okay)
Paul Strickland and Stewart Huff at IndyFringe (pretty good!)
"And Then They Came For..." at IRT (A story about Anne Frank) (very good)
"Who Am I This Time?" ...at IRT (Kurt Vonnegut actually wrote some short stories that were not depressing and someone turned them into short plays...to mixed results.
"The Dining Room" at Carmel Theater. (Okay)
"Kings and Queens of Country" at Dance Kaleidoscope. (Awesome!) (with Jodee and Willard, really fun!)
"Lion in Winter" (a friend was in it.)
"Other Desert Cities" at IRT (pretty good!)
"The Mountaintop" (about Martin Luther King Junior's last night on earth at the Hotel Lorraine)
Saw some lectures and readings at Butler, including filmmaker Lee Daniels, actress Marlee Matlin, and writers Cheryl Strayed and Jesymn Ward.
A concert for Spirit & Place Festival featuring Son Lux with Lily & Madeleine and poet Tony Styxx.
We had some nice dinners out, usually after one of the shows, including Mesh (one of my faves in town), McCormick and Schmick, and Morton's (overpriced upscale man style dimly lit steak and more steak), plus some good authentic ethnic places in my 'hood.
I did a little cooking, including a fantastic Valentine's dinner of lobster, coconut shrimp, salad, focaccia, tomato bisque, and chocolate coconut pie. And some really good wine from one of our CA trips.
I worked on a play, and then was assigned a new book, so I've been really busy procrastinating that.
Spring finally sprung, and the flowering pears are a bloom, and the flowers will soon follow! Spring is my favorite time of year!
Thank you Grumpy Old Man Winter for making it that much sweeter!
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Playgrounds and Standing your Ground
Another one I started but didn't finish from Fall 2012
*********
One of my first memories was of a playground at a campground. I was young--not even in school yet--still wearing those scratchy polyester shorts and shirts that I hated, and I was at the playground alone. Before I tarnish the custodial expertise of my parents, first, it was the early 70s. Second, there is a chance that I had been there with my siblings, and they had left, or that I had somehow wandered there by myself.
I was playing on the playground--back when they had real playgrounds with separate apparatus--big metal slides with humps in the middle, banana seat swings, merry go rounds--the kind you pump to make go faster, funnel ball, tether ball, the bouncy pelican, jungle gyms, monkey bars, and teeter totters. Every new playground was like an amusement park, all 100% self-propelled, and most of them seemingly designed to break limbs. This particular playground was sheltered by tall trees, and it felt like a wooded wonderland, and I can still see the late afternoon rays coming through the leaves. There was one ride that was tricycles on a round track, resembling a carousel, except you made them go by pedaling.
I was running from toy to toy in utter bliss. I got on the tricycles and was pedaling away, when a group of "big kids" (probably age 8-10) approached. They walked up like they owned the place. I kept riding. The girl in the group didn't like me riding without acknowledging her, and she told me I had to get off. I ignored her and kept pedaling. As if on cue two of the boys pushed me off. I got up and got back on, and they threw me down again with more force, and I remember their words: "She said, 'Git!'"
"Git."
That was a scary ass word to me. Lazy pronunciations of monosyllabic words has a certain meanness.
The other boy added a more eloquent speech about my impending eviction:
"Scram."
Even scarier that "Git."
So I scrammed the git out of there.
It wasn't my first dealing with bullies. I spent my formative years at a parochial school, and getting beat up (and kissed without giving permission) evidently was all part of God's plan. There was something I was more scared of than bullies. I was scared of looking scared. I consider this a survival gene because I didn't contemplate it or learn it. I just felt it.
In my musings, I got up, kicked dirt at them and then slugged that bossy bitch with her brunette braids and freckles in the stomach, and yelled,
"I ain't finished yet!"
That would never happen. I would never utter an expletive like "ain't."
In real life, I think I left, tired of getting beat up. I probably cried or at least my lip trembled as I made my back to our campsite. Those were cool ass playground toys, and I couldn't play with them.
Kids are mean!
*********
One of my first memories was of a playground at a campground. I was young--not even in school yet--still wearing those scratchy polyester shorts and shirts that I hated, and I was at the playground alone. Before I tarnish the custodial expertise of my parents, first, it was the early 70s. Second, there is a chance that I had been there with my siblings, and they had left, or that I had somehow wandered there by myself.
I was playing on the playground--back when they had real playgrounds with separate apparatus--big metal slides with humps in the middle, banana seat swings, merry go rounds--the kind you pump to make go faster, funnel ball, tether ball, the bouncy pelican, jungle gyms, monkey bars, and teeter totters. Every new playground was like an amusement park, all 100% self-propelled, and most of them seemingly designed to break limbs. This particular playground was sheltered by tall trees, and it felt like a wooded wonderland, and I can still see the late afternoon rays coming through the leaves. There was one ride that was tricycles on a round track, resembling a carousel, except you made them go by pedaling.
I was running from toy to toy in utter bliss. I got on the tricycles and was pedaling away, when a group of "big kids" (probably age 8-10) approached. They walked up like they owned the place. I kept riding. The girl in the group didn't like me riding without acknowledging her, and she told me I had to get off. I ignored her and kept pedaling. As if on cue two of the boys pushed me off. I got up and got back on, and they threw me down again with more force, and I remember their words: "She said, 'Git!'"
"Git."
That was a scary ass word to me. Lazy pronunciations of monosyllabic words has a certain meanness.
The other boy added a more eloquent speech about my impending eviction:
"Scram."
Even scarier that "Git."
So I scrammed the git out of there.
It wasn't my first dealing with bullies. I spent my formative years at a parochial school, and getting beat up (and kissed without giving permission) evidently was all part of God's plan. There was something I was more scared of than bullies. I was scared of looking scared. I consider this a survival gene because I didn't contemplate it or learn it. I just felt it.
In my musings, I got up, kicked dirt at them and then slugged that bossy bitch with her brunette braids and freckles in the stomach, and yelled,
"I ain't finished yet!"
That would never happen. I would never utter an expletive like "ain't."
In real life, I think I left, tired of getting beat up. I probably cried or at least my lip trembled as I made my back to our campsite. Those were cool ass playground toys, and I couldn't play with them.
Kids are mean!
The Off Season
An Unfinished blog I wrote in December 2012 while on Holiday in Cape San Blas.
*************************************
We're on a road trip. Going "down" the country in the off season.
We headed south the day after Thanksgiving, hitting Mammoth Cave NP (where we bought a National Park Passport because we are that geeky and because it's our sixth national park in six months!), rented a lovely room in an old house in old Birmingham, and then hit the Selma to Montgomery Freedom Trail NP (more on that later when I've had enough time to properly reflect), and finally settled on Florida's Forgotten Coast. We're on an isolated peninsula called Cape San Blas, surrounded by state parks, estuaries, rivers, salt marshes, and national wildlife refuges in the panhandle about sixty miles east of the eyesore known as Panama City.
We rented a sweet little house on stilts, nothing fancy, nice big balcony with ceiling fans and comfy furniture overlooking the bay in the front, plenty of windows, stocked kitchen, and just a few hundred steps out the back door from the sugar white beach of the Gulf of Mexico. We're surrounded by lush tropical sand pines and palmetto palm trees, and about nine miles down the road from one of the most beautiful and underrated beaches in the world--St. Joseph Peninsula State Park.
There might be twenty other people on this peninsula right now, but I get the feeling that it never feels crowded even in the height of tourist season. Some people call this "Old Florida" or "Real Florida." No attractions here except the stunning landscape. No water parks, IMAX theaters, outlet malls, chain restaurants, or high rise hotels. I never knew such a place existed in Florida!
I rented a bike and have been riding ~15 miles per day. It's one of those "backward-braking" bikes, no gears, upright handle bars, big tractor seat. I bit dust my first time on it, not accustomed to the brakes. I hit some sand and the handlebars slipped and I wracked my knee into them. I got up, rubbed some dirt in the open wound, and got back on, blood flowing down my leg. When the sun is shining and I've got exploring to do, a little blood doesn't stop the show. Several days later, it is still aching, and I'm wondering if I should take it easy, but it just doesn't seem likely!
I brought my dog, and we've been walking the shores morning, noon, and night. Between the beach walks and trails, I'm doing about nine miles per day on foot. My dog loves the ocean, especially in the morning when there are "fresh deaddies"--newly spewed dead crabs and jellyfish on the shore--for his disgusting smells' delight.
It could be a little warmer, but with a bit of a draft comes wide empty beaches and no traffic and a feeling that the island is one's own. As I stare at the vast empty beach I keep thinking of a book I loved as a child--"Island of the Blue Dolphins," by Scott Dell, which was a fictionalized account of a young girl who was shipwrecked alone on an island off the coast of California sometime in the 1700s.
I've never vacationed in mild temperatures, and it's taking some adjustments. The truth is I felt off the first few days I was here. We recently went to Death Valley where the temps hit 125 everyday and cooled down to just 110 at night. In short, we're used to sweating on vacation, and we've needed long sleeved tees or sweatshirts everyday here. I was surprised by how hard it was for me to relax at first. I kept thinking, "I wish it were warmer." (It's ranged from 65-72.)
*************************************
We're on a road trip. Going "down" the country in the off season.
We headed south the day after Thanksgiving, hitting Mammoth Cave NP (where we bought a National Park Passport because we are that geeky and because it's our sixth national park in six months!), rented a lovely room in an old house in old Birmingham, and then hit the Selma to Montgomery Freedom Trail NP (more on that later when I've had enough time to properly reflect), and finally settled on Florida's Forgotten Coast. We're on an isolated peninsula called Cape San Blas, surrounded by state parks, estuaries, rivers, salt marshes, and national wildlife refuges in the panhandle about sixty miles east of the eyesore known as Panama City.
We rented a sweet little house on stilts, nothing fancy, nice big balcony with ceiling fans and comfy furniture overlooking the bay in the front, plenty of windows, stocked kitchen, and just a few hundred steps out the back door from the sugar white beach of the Gulf of Mexico. We're surrounded by lush tropical sand pines and palmetto palm trees, and about nine miles down the road from one of the most beautiful and underrated beaches in the world--St. Joseph Peninsula State Park.
There might be twenty other people on this peninsula right now, but I get the feeling that it never feels crowded even in the height of tourist season. Some people call this "Old Florida" or "Real Florida." No attractions here except the stunning landscape. No water parks, IMAX theaters, outlet malls, chain restaurants, or high rise hotels. I never knew such a place existed in Florida!
I rented a bike and have been riding ~15 miles per day. It's one of those "backward-braking" bikes, no gears, upright handle bars, big tractor seat. I bit dust my first time on it, not accustomed to the brakes. I hit some sand and the handlebars slipped and I wracked my knee into them. I got up, rubbed some dirt in the open wound, and got back on, blood flowing down my leg. When the sun is shining and I've got exploring to do, a little blood doesn't stop the show. Several days later, it is still aching, and I'm wondering if I should take it easy, but it just doesn't seem likely!
I brought my dog, and we've been walking the shores morning, noon, and night. Between the beach walks and trails, I'm doing about nine miles per day on foot. My dog loves the ocean, especially in the morning when there are "fresh deaddies"--newly spewed dead crabs and jellyfish on the shore--for his disgusting smells' delight.
It could be a little warmer, but with a bit of a draft comes wide empty beaches and no traffic and a feeling that the island is one's own. As I stare at the vast empty beach I keep thinking of a book I loved as a child--"Island of the Blue Dolphins," by Scott Dell, which was a fictionalized account of a young girl who was shipwrecked alone on an island off the coast of California sometime in the 1700s.
I've never vacationed in mild temperatures, and it's taking some adjustments. The truth is I felt off the first few days I was here. We recently went to Death Valley where the temps hit 125 everyday and cooled down to just 110 at night. In short, we're used to sweating on vacation, and we've needed long sleeved tees or sweatshirts everyday here. I was surprised by how hard it was for me to relax at first. I kept thinking, "I wish it were warmer." (It's ranged from 65-72.)
A draft from a year ago that I didn't publish
I wrote this last April.
The musician was my friend Jane Thatcher, who had stayed with me while performing a concert at Birdy's the previous night.
I was about to be unemployed in two weeks, and I was scared. I guess I got embarrassed to write it because it stayed in draft form for a year.
**************************************
Spring is slow-coming to Indy this year. Or maybe it's right on time...how quickly we adjust to changing weather patterns. We've had the bikes out only a couple of times, and cooked on the grill only once. Yesterday there were sleetflakes in the cold air. On good days, I'm noticing the pink blossoms on weeping trees, cascading to the emerald green grass. If I wake up clear and not foggy, I'm hearing the birds who have come back from winter break. I'm waiting for the day when their song will sing me back to joy.
But lately I've had this dread. This sense of dread is causing a sense of dead. Deadening. Of my senses. I don't want this.
I'm thinking about the dreams I dreamt for this year. Wondering if they will come true, or more specifically, if I will make them come true. I can, you know. My dreams were merely goals, finite goals, such as "see X in concert," and I have complete power over things like that.
I thought this would be the year that I spent my time ingesting and observing.
I was talking about dreams, the kind we dream while awake, with my musician friend yesterday over coffee yesterday morning. Morning is the best time of day to talk dreams. Sometime after midnight is the next best time.
There was a time when I believed that my life had simply not caught up to my dreams. It was only a year or so ago, maybe longer. I've always been pretty silent about my dreams. Secretive. Protective. I don't tell people much. I realize it's because I don't spend much time entertaining and incubating the seeds. I know they're in there, but when I can't even make it in a small town like Indianapolis, it is hard to actualize them or think of them with much detail. The little glimpses I had were just that, flashpoints, lightning bolts, fireflies in the distance.
But lately I think I'm living like a pothead except without the pot.
No ambition. No desire. I write this to shake myself from this slumber of dumbness, deafness, and muteness. I think it comes down to something far more egregious...No belief.
I'm writing today to me to change that. To get behind the wheel and hit the gas.
And be okay not knowing where I'm going.
Because I don't.
Professionally, emotionally, or otherwise.
I am suddenly experiencing serious doubt about my professional future. I've been doing excellent work the past six years, an asset to my team. Except I've been doing it in this bubble of a giant corporation that has its own laws, language, customs, and citizens, and is surrounded by a fortress. I'm feeling useless to the outside world, and I feel it's my fault for not trying harder to get out on my own terms, except I was happy here and would have stayed indefinitely. I'm having trouble shaking it, and I thought I might shake it by admitting it.
45.
"Forty-five and fuckin' fabulous!"
That was one of my dreams for this year. To be that age and that description.
Except right now, I'm feeling "forty-five and fucking irrelevant."
The musician was my friend Jane Thatcher, who had stayed with me while performing a concert at Birdy's the previous night.
I was about to be unemployed in two weeks, and I was scared. I guess I got embarrassed to write it because it stayed in draft form for a year.
**************************************
Spring is slow-coming to Indy this year. Or maybe it's right on time...how quickly we adjust to changing weather patterns. We've had the bikes out only a couple of times, and cooked on the grill only once. Yesterday there were sleetflakes in the cold air. On good days, I'm noticing the pink blossoms on weeping trees, cascading to the emerald green grass. If I wake up clear and not foggy, I'm hearing the birds who have come back from winter break. I'm waiting for the day when their song will sing me back to joy.
But lately I've had this dread. This sense of dread is causing a sense of dead. Deadening. Of my senses. I don't want this.
I'm thinking about the dreams I dreamt for this year. Wondering if they will come true, or more specifically, if I will make them come true. I can, you know. My dreams were merely goals, finite goals, such as "see X in concert," and I have complete power over things like that.
I thought this would be the year that I spent my time ingesting and observing.
I was talking about dreams, the kind we dream while awake, with my musician friend yesterday over coffee yesterday morning. Morning is the best time of day to talk dreams. Sometime after midnight is the next best time.
There was a time when I believed that my life had simply not caught up to my dreams. It was only a year or so ago, maybe longer. I've always been pretty silent about my dreams. Secretive. Protective. I don't tell people much. I realize it's because I don't spend much time entertaining and incubating the seeds. I know they're in there, but when I can't even make it in a small town like Indianapolis, it is hard to actualize them or think of them with much detail. The little glimpses I had were just that, flashpoints, lightning bolts, fireflies in the distance.
But lately I think I'm living like a pothead except without the pot.
No ambition. No desire. I write this to shake myself from this slumber of dumbness, deafness, and muteness. I think it comes down to something far more egregious...No belief.
I'm writing today to me to change that. To get behind the wheel and hit the gas.
And be okay not knowing where I'm going.
Because I don't.
Professionally, emotionally, or otherwise.
I am suddenly experiencing serious doubt about my professional future. I've been doing excellent work the past six years, an asset to my team. Except I've been doing it in this bubble of a giant corporation that has its own laws, language, customs, and citizens, and is surrounded by a fortress. I'm feeling useless to the outside world, and I feel it's my fault for not trying harder to get out on my own terms, except I was happy here and would have stayed indefinitely. I'm having trouble shaking it, and I thought I might shake it by admitting it.
45.
"Forty-five and fuckin' fabulous!"
That was one of my dreams for this year. To be that age and that description.
Except right now, I'm feeling "forty-five and fucking irrelevant."
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I was Journey in Place for over three years, then Peregrine/Vagabondage for a few weeks. I'm trying out a new one again: Fluer Sauvage...
