Stay of Execution

How The iPod Is Changing My Life, Part 1

One thing about the iPod that I like is that I can listen to my music library alphabetically.  This is more interesting than 'shuffle' to me, somehow, although it's mostly the same effect.  One difference is that I can hear originals and covers of a song back to back, which I find makes me notice each version more than I otherwise might.  But because that happens pretty rarely, it's not gimmicky. 

The alphabetical and shuffle feature highlight some selections that I rarely listen to.  One unintended consequence: a number of teachings by Pema Chodron are somehow not labeled as an audiobook, but rather are intermingled with my music.  So I'll be grooving along and then all the sudden there's Pema, talking to me, reminding me to open my tender heart, not to harden myself against the pain of the world.  She is gentle and humble and funny and sincere for about three minutes, which is probably not enough but enough for this beginner mind, and then the iPod serves up James Brown or Johnny Cash or ABBA and I'm in another place, with maybe just maybe a softer heart. 

More Thoughts About This Blog

What this blog gives me:

* a place to store images, memories, and experiences that I want to share, with you, or with myself in the future.
* a feeling of connection with a wider world than those I see every day
* feedback from smart and interesting people, some of whom think like me and some of whom think very differently
* a reason to write things down that pass through my head
* a place with flexible rules, where everything that is interesting to me is fair game
* a sense of accomplishment and gratification

What this blog doesn't give me:

* money, food, or sex
* a place to store doodles or drawings
* a way to store or share music or sounds
* any kind of external pressure to perform
* a really good search utility to find old thoughts or memories
* a sense of truly permanent storage
* a place to work out thoughts that feel risky or very private
* [added later] a particularly flexible interface for archiving or indexing or presenting posts

The Ivory Tower

Busy, rushing.  Will get to the requests this afternoon, if all goes well.  Tomorrow, if not.  There are interesting ones there, thank you.  Still time for more, if you've got something you'd like to ask for. 

When I started working at the college, I had fantasies of making friends with a bunch of professors and hanging out, talking books and ideas and exchanging witty banter as we walked together to the library on the sun-dappled quad with falling leaves all around us.  So far, I haven't met a single professor.  The people I've gotten to know best are: a receptionist, a mechanic, a janitor, a carpenter, two facilities planners, a couple of coaches, a cafeteria worker, and an admissions officer.  I expect to get to know some of the development folks over the next few months.  Of course a bunch of students.  Where are the professors?  I have no idea. 

A Disorganized Reflection on My Wardrobe

I have:
* good undergarments, including really good camisoles.  I love this time of year, where it's sensible to slide a silk underthing on that will keep you warm underneath whatever you're actually wearing.
* great socks, mostly striped.
* one good pair of jeans.  A second pair, that's only okay. Two bad pairs, that I should just give away.
* lots of dress trousers, that I rarely wear.
* leather pants and suede pants and a pair of funky green fake fur pants, all of which are fabulous but none of which I can ever seem to pair a top with.
* a cute necklace and cute tiny pearl earrings that I wear every day.
* great outdoor gear for almost any kind of weather combination
* some interesting skirts that I can't seem to pair any tops with.
* good shoes. 
* two cute tops.

I need:

Miracles

I had dinner at an Indian place in Brunswick, and when I crossed the street to get into my car two young men called to me.  I stood at my car, drivers' door open, leaning against the roof and looked at them.  "We hope we didn't startle you," one of them said.  They were young: late teens, maybe, wearing watch caps and winter jackets.  Although it was cold, their jackets were unzipped partway down, revealing white shirts and ties underneath.  "We're missionaries for the Church of the Latter Day Saints.  Can we answer any questions for you, like about what happens when you die?"  I said, "Well, actually, I don't have any questions right at this minute."  I gestured with my head at the car, and the fact that I was halfway into it.  They smiled.  They were shivering a little bit, but didn't want to zip up their jackets.  I guess the white shirt and tie are important signs to strangers that they are respectful young men. 

I said, "Are people rude to you?"  They smiled.  Sometimes.  A lot of people aren't necessarily rude, but they just don't want to talk to us.  "Are you guys from here, or from away?"  One was from Canada, and one was from Idaho.  I asked how long they'd been doing it.  They're missionaries on two year rotations: one was brand new, and looked nervous.  He didn't do very much of the talking.  The other was partway through his second year.  "Did you choose to come here?"  No, they explained.  We got assigned New England.  We rotate through different towns.  I asked whether they converted anyone.  "We don't convert.  We just teach what we know, and sometimes people decide they believe it, too."  Well, I said, maybe 'convert' isn't the right terminology, but what does it mean to have a good day as a missionary?  "Well, sometimes a miracle happens," said the young man who was doing most of the talking.  "Not everyone might recognize it as a miracle, maybe it's not what you ordinarily think of as a miracle, but I do."  He said, "The first day he was working," gesturing at the new missionary, "we were going door to door.  It was raining and cold, and nobody wanted to talk to us.  No, no, no, all day.  And we kept knocking on doors, and we were cold, and then we got to a door of someone who was a member of our church.  And she asked us if we wanted to stay for dinner.  So we did.  And there was someone in the house who wasn't a member of the church, but the hostess asked whether she would be willing to hear our teachings.  And she was.  And so we were warm and we got to tell her what we've learned, like about what happens when you die, and it was a really great day."  The new guy was nodding, with a small smile on his face. 

I said, "Did you guys grow up in the church?"  They both said yes.  "So you've always believed?"  They nodded.  The talker said, "Well, sometimes more and sometimes less."  "More now?" I said.  He grinned.  "Yes.  More now."  I said, "I haven't been able to believe, yet."  He wrinkled his brow.  "In God?"  He looked perplexed, like he could imagine not being a Mormon but couldn't imagine not believing in God.  I nodded.  "It's like I'm colorblind," I said.  He gave me a piece of paper.  "You can send this in and they'll send you a DVD," he said.  I put it in my pocket.  "Goodnight, guys," I said.  "Stay warm."  I got into my car and drove away.

Change

I am going to change this weblog.  I don't know how, yet.  But in some ways I feel it has run its course, at least in its current manifestation.  My goal is to change it for December 1, but that may not happen.  Certainly by my birthday, December 21. 

I'm not sure what my objective is with the weblog anymore.  It began as an experiment with a new tool, back in the spring of 2002 (those old weblog posts since deleted).  It's always been a reason to get me writing at least something every day.  As such, it has helped me find my voice as a writer.  It has also helped me notice and identify the things in my daily life that speak to me somehow.  That's been valuable.  I've met people and made friends through it, which has been very valuable.  The All-Request feature has been a great "writing prompt" for me, giving me reason to address and think about things that I wouldn't otherwise have sat down and written about.  Writing here gets me unstuck to write elsewhere, and keeps me unstuck.  It feels necessary. 

I think there are ways I could get more readers, or I could pander better to a larger audience.  I think weblogs that specialize in something specific are more popular than ones like this, which meander around different topics.  This could be a sailing blog or a writing blog or an exercise blog or (heaven forbid) a dating blog.  I have chosen not to do that here.  Some lawyers and law students have hung on as readers because once upon a time this was a law blog, but they must not be very fussy, because there's very little law to be found.  I've been personal but not revelatory and I think that, too, limits the audience.  The voyeurism opportunities are pretty limited here.  In both aspects I feel good about the choices I've made here.  They mirror how I am in real life, I think: a person who is interested in a lot of things, and who is honest, but not overly forthcoming, about my emotional inner life. 

But it feels like the weblog has run its course, perhaps.  I've been thinking about ways to play with it, and make it something that stretches me in a different way.  I have some ideas, but I am interested in yours, and in your reactions to the way the weblog is now, and what you like or don't like about it.  What's baby, and what's bathwater?   

Requests Monday and Tuesday

I'll take requests, if you have anything you'd like me to post about.  Leave a comment or send me an email and I will do my best to address your question. 

What I'm Reading These Days

Just read Eva Moves the Furniture by Margot Livesay, from whom I'll be taking a fiction class next semester.  I figure I should read all of her books before the class starts, just to know what I'm getting into.  I liked, but did not love, Eva.  Last night I bought Bleak House and curled up on the sofa for about 80 pages of Dickens.  He's so good.  It's comforting to have 900 pages ahead of me.  I'm still reading Sam Harris's book, The End of Faith, too, and really like it.  I just am not setting aside enough time to read nonfiction, and when I hop into bed to fall asleep I usually reach for the novel, not the nonfiction selection, so that book is taking a while.

A month or two ago I read Maggie Darling by James Howard Kunstler.  It's packaged to look like chick lit, and at first it seems to be -- highly satirical, clever, Austenesque chick lit.  That baffled me: why is James Howard Kunstler writing chick lit?  But sure, enough the wheels come off partway through the book and it turns out to be a rant about what's wrong with America.  Everyone goes crazy or dies, and all the characters turn into symbols or foils, although the heroine gets her man in the end.  It was an odd book, but I liked it, mostly because although I can't decide whether Kunstler is a wise man or a kook, I love his prose. 

Paralyzed

Yesterday we had a family meeting.  My dad is one of five siblings, and those five were there, plus one of their spouses and my cousin and I, the oldest of the grandchildren by about 12 years.  We talked about my grandmother.  She's dying, slowly.  She's losing her memory, faster and faster.  She knows it, and hates it.  She's very smart, and sees what is happening to her.  She's self-conscious about the short-term memory loss so she doesn't want people to see her confused or fumbling for words or repeating stories.  She's a social woman, and not seeing people makes her depressed and isolated and alone.  Some days, she says, she wants to die. 

And she will die, but probably not soon.  She's neither healthy nor acutely unhealthy.  She doesn't get much exercise.  She sometimes forgets to eat.  She sweats a lot, even when she's cold, and complains of it, but the doctor doesn't think it can be fixed.  She's old.  She's just started antidepressants.  She's been taking a drug that helps slow the short-term memory loss, but we don't expect that to help much.

We went around the table.  My uncle B has been managing the doctor's visits and reported on health.  My aunt E talked about a conversation with Grandma where Grandma said she wanted to die and my aunt said, well, there are things you can do about that if you want to, and Grandma concluded that maybe she didn't want to die just yet.  My cousin L talked about what she noticed the last time she visited.  My dad manages the finances, and talked about whether it's time to take the checkbook away from Grandma.  Not yet, we think.  My aunt A said how grateful she was to have siblings to help go through this time together.  She talked about what different relationships each of them has with Grandma, and how useful it is that they can get together and compare conversations.  I asked a couple of questions, but mostly stayed silent, with my aunt S. 

I'm paralyzed by this.  I think it's awful.  I don't know how to talk about it, or what to do.  I don't know what's to be done.  I love my aunts and uncles and the different styles each one brings to coping and relating.  They seem so brave to me. 

My cousin, who is also an only child, and I looked at each other when my aunt said, "I'm so glad the five of us can go through this together."  We made a pact in the car ride home to help one another when its time to take care of our own parents.  I love being an only child, but watching my dad and his brother and sisters talking and laughing and getting teary-eyed together I felt very alone. 

Saturday Afternoon

It's cold and snowing tiny flakes.  There's a lot of snow.  The woman across the street (the bread thrower) is pacing on her porch, with someone in a camoflage jacket who is standing on a chair poking at the porch roof.  Maybe they are hanging Christmas lights.  I am bundled up in a blanket on the sofa with a pot of tea and the dog sleeping at my feet, and Ray LaMontagne singing to me about the heart on his sleeve that is bleeding. 

I just came back from breakfast, even though it's nearly 3 PM.  It was a slow breakfast, sitting at the counter and reading my novel, but this morning I slept past noon.  I haven't done that in years.  I can't remember the last time I did that.  I'm usually unable to sleep past 7 or 8 AM, even when I'd like to.  I went out with friends last night and had fish and beer and whiskey and wine and martinis.  We went to bars I don't like, at my suggestion.  I confirmed that I don't like those bars.  It's good to check every now and then.  Yep, still don't like this place.  I played bar games: a video touch screen one that I am particularly addicted to, plus air hockey and pinball and a video deer hunting shooter that I was terrible at.  I rocked at pinball.  I'd forgotten how much fun air hockey is.  The night would have been fine if the friends who drove me home hadn't come in for wine and Hershey's kisses and conversation.  We were up very late.

I think the reason I slept so long is because I lifted weights yesterday for the first time in quite a long time.  This morning I feel that nice soreness of tired muscles in my calves, glutes, pecs.  I'm hoping to pull myself off the sofa in an hour or two and go back to the gym to sweat away what remains of the cobwebs in my skull.  Lifting feels so good.  I'm glad to get back to it.   

Across the street they are hanging white lights, the kind that dangle like icicles.  It is slow going, because the woman has a cigarette in one hand and can only use one hand to untangle the lights.  I think it is her daughter in the camoflage jacket.  I've lived here for seven years but still haven't figured out the family relationships of the people in that house.  There are people of many generations who come and go frequently, and I can't tell who's who or how they are related.