It’s push comes to shove time, many of us are having to decide what we really need to shop for and what we can to without. In an attempt to stave off financial ruin, I have whittled my grocery list way down. I used to think I spent a lot on groceries, but it turns out my spending is average for the size of my family. I’m convinced my family is not really average and that I can bring my grocery bill down. It’s just one of the ways I’m choosing to economize in these interesting times.
I can’t find it in myself to give up my whole bean coffee, roasted to perfection by some corporate megalomaniac, I’m sure, but all the same I adore it. It’s worth waking up for. I can’t go with out my morning companion, and cheaper imitations just won’t do. They are to acidic, to light, to green, to pale, to mass produced, canned and vacuum sealed. They have no real personality; they just masquerade as having great depth. Their charm is gone the moment you get a whiff of their scent, like a guy wearing cheap cologne on a first date.
So in an attempt to economize, I have taken to actually measuring my beans to make each perfect cup o’ joe. I’m measuring the water too, so no left over, unused, unwanted, cold growing, stale cups of coffee get washed down the kitchen sink.
Into the grinder I carefully placed one and one half tablespoons of beans per cup o’joe. I ground the beans fine and dumped them into the French press coffee pot ( the only way to go if you really love the taste of coffee- no paper filter to soak up the delicate oils infused with essence of coffee tree, bloom and growth ).
One measured cup of steaming hot water for each cup of coffee followed.
I don’t know about you but I was fascinated to find that my coffee “cup” holds about two cups of coffee. I measured my china from the 30’s and 40’s and guess what? A cup held a cup. I wondered when we became such gluttons. Or were there copious cups all along, they just were not included with a set of delicate china? Did big mugs become fashionable in the 50’s? I had to know, it’s just me so I went on-line (don’t you love the internet?) and found this:
Archaeologists found mugs carved from bones dating to the Stone Age. The first coffee shop appeared in 1475 in Constantinople. The first coffee mugs were made out of wood during that time. In 1748, Britain banned coffee and all merchandise associated with it, including mugs. This led to a shortage of mugs, and the black market prices for mugs rose. DAMN! I sure am glad that I do not live in Britain in 1748!
Fascinating- but let us get back to the story-
I wrapped the coffee pot in kitchen towels to keep the heat in and let it set the required 4 minutes. Wa-la I mused as I poured the perfect cup of coffee. Steam rose to delight my nose as I lifted the mug and took a first sip.
Instantaneously it seemed that I had entered a worm hole and was projected back in time to a warm September afternoon. The sky was cloudless. Shade dappled the table I sat at, with tiny flutters of shadow in the warm breeze. The sun, just past mid point in the sky reflected a billion diamond like wave caps off the distant ocean, laid out before me with no end in sight. From my seat at the top of the island, I could see coast line curve for many miles before it wandered around the island, the ocean surrounding it like a square dancers skirt in full twirl. The dust had settled on the dirt road, the last car passed half an hour ago and the only sounds were the call of birds I could not identify in the distance, as they meandered through the coffee plantation, and the low hum of the coffee roaster in the plantation’s thatched roof “factory and retail shop” down the walk to my right. The flagstone patio was empty; presumably the tourists were off pursuing more aquatic interests in the heat of the day.
The cup of coffee in front of me was hot, and made the air seem cool, a respite from the humid warmth of the big island air. The coffee was dark and rich, tasting like once ancient volcanic lava now weatherized to a soft black nutrient rich soil, and sweet dreams of paradise and sea turtles and palm trees and orchid leis.
A moment later I was back in the kitchen, - Wow! That is one good cup of coffee. I'm making it just like that from now on. The unexpected mini vacation-in-my-mind just the icing on the cake of a great economical cup 'o joe.
Showing posts with label favorites. Show all posts
Showing posts with label favorites. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Cup O’ Joe
I woke this morning thinking, as most mornings I do, of a cup ‘o Joe.
Wait-Why do they call it a cup of Joe? And who is they?
Well, I found a few theories on the origin of the popular moniker for coffee.
In 1914 the secretary of the US Navy admiral Josephus Joe Daniels abolished the officers wine mess, from that time on the strongest and apparently therefore the drink of choice was coffee. It was dubbed a cup of Joe. By 1931 the slang was popular enough to be included in the reserve officer’s manual.
Some people think that the slang is derived from the fact that coffee was a common man’s drink, and Joe was the name for the common man. I also found this interesting suggestion and wondered if it could be true - The old 16th century Scottish word joe, which translates to joy, is the explanation behind this name for coffee.
And, since we are learning about slang for coffee- here’s another popular one: Java became a popular name for coffee in the 19th century because the island of Java was at that time the major source of the world’s coffee.
Personally, every time I hear coffee termed Joe my mind envisions a tall, cool gumshoe straight from the 40’s. His face reflects his weariness; his posture is slightly slumped as if he is bone tired. His clothes are wrinkled, suit with a skinny tie anchored to the ground by a scuffed pair of shoes caked with dust. Even the black Fedora on his head looks like it could use a rest as he pulls it off and gives it a shake, dust filtering up into the pink cast of early morning light. He sets the hat on the counter. His chiseled face is covered with a days stubble because he’s been hunting clues not sleeping, eating or shaving. Even in his weariness there is a strength that could be trusted. He was definitely a man who could get the job done. He leans over the counter in a dim greasy spoon, motioning with a hand for the waitress to bring him a cup o’ joe as he lights his cigarette with a strike anywhere match.
Now back to the story-
I was waking from the nothingness of my solid sleep. As my eyes opened, there was a vision of my favorite cup filled to the brim with steaming coffee floating in front of my eyes, like the proverbial oasis in the desert, so real I could almost reach out and grab the mug from the sky.
That type of vision can motivate me to hop from under the cozy covers, even on a cold day. I’m picky about my Joe, like most people I have my own personal recipe for making the perfect cup. It involves a French press coffee maker, a coffee grinder, some really dark oily beans and half and half not milk- thank you, but honestly, the beans are definitely the key to a good cup of coffee.
Coffee belongs to the botanical family Rubiaceae, which has some 500 genera and over 6,000 species. Most are tropical trees and shrubs which grow in the lower storey of forests. Other members of the family include the gardenias and plants which yield quinine and other useful substances, but Coffea is by far the most important member of the family economically.
According to legend, human cultivation of coffee began after goats in Ethiopia were seen becoming frisky after eating the leaves and fruits of the coffee tree.
The first written record of coffee, made from roasted coffee beans, comes from Arabian scholars who wrote that it was useful in prolonging their working hours. The Arab innovation of making a brew from roasted beans, spread first among the Egyptians and Turks and later on found its way around the world.
Coffea Arabica is the one I like. It is indigenous to Ethiopia and Yemen. It is believed to be the first species of coffee to be cultivated, being grown in southwest Arabia for well over 1,000 years. Coffea Arabica is considered to produce better coffee than the other major commercially grown coffee species -- Coffea canephora (robusta).
Robusta is a species of coffee which has its origins in western Africa. It once was grown mostly in Africa and Brazil. In recent years Vietnam, has become the world's single largest exporter. Approximately one third of the coffee produced in the world is Robusta.
Robusta is easier to care for than the other major species of coffee, Arabica , and because of this it is cheaper to produce. Since Arabica beans are considered superior, Robusta is usually limited to lower grade coffee blends.
C8H10N4O2. That is the formula for caffeine. I just love chemistry, don’t you?
Caffeine is a bitter white crystalline xanthine alkaloid that acts as a psychoactive stimulant drug and a mild diuretic (speeds up urine production) in humans and other animals. Caffeine was discovered by a German chemist, Friedrich Ferdinand Runge, in 1819. Caffeine is also called guaranine when found in guarana, mateine when found in mate, and theine when found in tea; all of these names are synonyms for the same chemical compound.
Robusta, at 1.7-4.0% caffeine, has about twice as much caffeine as Arabica with 0.8-1.4%.
Does that surprise you? I just said my favorite coffee has less caffeine, and, because I like the really dark roast, it has even less caffeine. Recall that age old adage – the greener the bean the more the caffeine? No? Well that is how it goes and the fact is you can practically roast the caffeine right out of the beans. My French roast has less caffeine than a cup of Folger’s.
You are probably thinking “Good God Almighty! Why would she like coffee with less caffeine?”
Because it’s not about the buzz. It’s about the flavor, the warmth, the smell. It’s about my favorite mug snug in my hands and taking a few minutes to let myself wake up before I fling myself into the day. Honestly folks, why would I need a bunch of caffeine after I just slept all night? Now, ask me about my one cup in the afternoon, and that might be about caffeine, but the morning, the morning is about flavor, savor and time.
The gumshoe surveys his surroundings. Nothing to make him nervous, just a few people waking in the early morning light of the diner. He eyes each one as if to find the meaning of their lives hidden in the wrinkles of their faces. He sees no malice, no suspicion, no flickering glances that might reflect someone looking for him. The waitress returns with his cup o’ joe and he settles his mind into contemplating the events of the last few nights and his expectations for the day. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would find the key to unlocking this puzzle, somewhere in his mind he had yet to access. Now, at this moment, the puzzle pieces still lay jumbled. Mismatched notches, colors colliding, outside edges missing. It didn’t make sense, and that he finds disturbing.
His long arms reach with strangely graceful hands for the creamer in a little pot on a bed of ice in a bowl not two feet away. He pours a small trickle of white, it disappears into the night black of his cup o’ joe, turning it into the dark brown color of sand on some exotic beach half a world away. With a glance around the room again he lifts his spoon and, feeling comfortable with his surroundings, he puts his full attention on the stirring of the coffee, mixing the cream in slowly, contemplatively, round and round. As he does, like a kaleidoscope, the pieces of the puzzle move round and round in his mind.
I found this interesting: The average Arabica plant is a large bush with dark-green oval leaves. It is genetically different from other coffee species, having four sets of chromosomes rather than two. C. arabica is a tetraploid (44 chromosomes) and is self-pollinating.C. canephora ( robusta) is diploid and self-sterile, producing many different forms and varieties in the wild.
It takes seven to nine pounds of cherry to make one pound of roasted coffee. Thus 100 pounds of cherry will yield about 12 pounds of roasted coffee.
The first sip from the heavy white mug warms his body as if a campfire had been lit on the counter in front of him. He savors the warmth, his mind starts to defrost as he awakens the lingering memory of his night spent crouching in the bushes outside the bleak apartment building. The next sip follows, gliding smoothly into his body as his mind recalls every shadow, every sound. The palm fronds crossing the walk, shadows in the moonlight, the hushed roar of the nearby beach, the scent of gardenias and salt. The sound of footsteps echoing to his hiding place, his brief sight of shoes, first the red patent leather high heels of the dame and later, much later the well heeled boots of a heavy man transversing the same route.
He sips again and recalls the urgent knocking on the door of the second floor apartment. His line of sight was obscured, but the timing was right and no other steps had fallen on his ears in the meantime. The boots must have stood for a while, searching? Remembering? His mind replays the muffled thump, the strangled gasp, recalls the sight of the blood.
Many social aspects of coffee can be seen in the modern-day lifestyle. The United States is the largest market for coffee, followed by Germany and Japan. The Nordic countries consume the most coffee per capita, with Finland typically occupying the top spot with a per-capita consumption in excess of 10 kg per year, closely followed by Norway, Sweden and Denmark.
A woman's late-night invitation to a man for a cup of coffee (typically after a date) has become code for an invitation to sex. This convention has become the subject of a great deal of comedy, and the treatments given to it in Seinfeld (in the words of George Costanza: "'Coffee' doesn't mean coffee! 'Coffee' means sex!")
The light in the diner changes as the sun begins to rise. The gumshoe continues to contemplate the meaning of the recalled clues as he savors the warm cup o’ Joe. The taste of the brew seems to strengthen his resolve. The kaleidoscope of fragmented puzzle pieces swirls around and the disjointed parts begin to fall into place. He feels himself snap to attention, like a bird dog pointing, as the final clue fits and the picture is visible. He picks up the cup and swallows the last drops of warm, bitter nectar as his mind swallows the truth.
He reaches with long fingers into his pants pocket and extracts a dollar. Laying it on the counter he picks up his hat and swings himself off the stool. As he turns he again takes in every face around him, still searching for a glint of recognition. None comes. He knows where the trail points; he knows where he has to go. He walks across the diner as if led by an invisible thread, out the heavy door, bells jangling, out to the sidewalk already warm from the morning sun. It was going to be another hot day, sweat breaking under his collar as he turns east with confident steps, heading toward the answer.
Wait-Why do they call it a cup of Joe? And who is they?
Well, I found a few theories on the origin of the popular moniker for coffee.
In 1914 the secretary of the US Navy admiral Josephus Joe Daniels abolished the officers wine mess, from that time on the strongest and apparently therefore the drink of choice was coffee. It was dubbed a cup of Joe. By 1931 the slang was popular enough to be included in the reserve officer’s manual.
Some people think that the slang is derived from the fact that coffee was a common man’s drink, and Joe was the name for the common man. I also found this interesting suggestion and wondered if it could be true - The old 16th century Scottish word joe, which translates to joy, is the explanation behind this name for coffee.
And, since we are learning about slang for coffee- here’s another popular one: Java became a popular name for coffee in the 19th century because the island of Java was at that time the major source of the world’s coffee.
Personally, every time I hear coffee termed Joe my mind envisions a tall, cool gumshoe straight from the 40’s. His face reflects his weariness; his posture is slightly slumped as if he is bone tired. His clothes are wrinkled, suit with a skinny tie anchored to the ground by a scuffed pair of shoes caked with dust. Even the black Fedora on his head looks like it could use a rest as he pulls it off and gives it a shake, dust filtering up into the pink cast of early morning light. He sets the hat on the counter. His chiseled face is covered with a days stubble because he’s been hunting clues not sleeping, eating or shaving. Even in his weariness there is a strength that could be trusted. He was definitely a man who could get the job done. He leans over the counter in a dim greasy spoon, motioning with a hand for the waitress to bring him a cup o’ joe as he lights his cigarette with a strike anywhere match.
Now back to the story-
I was waking from the nothingness of my solid sleep. As my eyes opened, there was a vision of my favorite cup filled to the brim with steaming coffee floating in front of my eyes, like the proverbial oasis in the desert, so real I could almost reach out and grab the mug from the sky.
That type of vision can motivate me to hop from under the cozy covers, even on a cold day. I’m picky about my Joe, like most people I have my own personal recipe for making the perfect cup. It involves a French press coffee maker, a coffee grinder, some really dark oily beans and half and half not milk- thank you, but honestly, the beans are definitely the key to a good cup of coffee.
Coffee belongs to the botanical family Rubiaceae, which has some 500 genera and over 6,000 species. Most are tropical trees and shrubs which grow in the lower storey of forests. Other members of the family include the gardenias and plants which yield quinine and other useful substances, but Coffea is by far the most important member of the family economically.
According to legend, human cultivation of coffee began after goats in Ethiopia were seen becoming frisky after eating the leaves and fruits of the coffee tree.
The first written record of coffee, made from roasted coffee beans, comes from Arabian scholars who wrote that it was useful in prolonging their working hours. The Arab innovation of making a brew from roasted beans, spread first among the Egyptians and Turks and later on found its way around the world.
Coffea Arabica is the one I like. It is indigenous to Ethiopia and Yemen. It is believed to be the first species of coffee to be cultivated, being grown in southwest Arabia for well over 1,000 years. Coffea Arabica is considered to produce better coffee than the other major commercially grown coffee species -- Coffea canephora (robusta).
Robusta is a species of coffee which has its origins in western Africa. It once was grown mostly in Africa and Brazil. In recent years Vietnam, has become the world's single largest exporter. Approximately one third of the coffee produced in the world is Robusta.
Robusta is easier to care for than the other major species of coffee, Arabica , and because of this it is cheaper to produce. Since Arabica beans are considered superior, Robusta is usually limited to lower grade coffee blends.
C8H10N4O2. That is the formula for caffeine. I just love chemistry, don’t you?
Caffeine is a bitter white crystalline xanthine alkaloid that acts as a psychoactive stimulant drug and a mild diuretic (speeds up urine production) in humans and other animals. Caffeine was discovered by a German chemist, Friedrich Ferdinand Runge, in 1819. Caffeine is also called guaranine when found in guarana, mateine when found in mate, and theine when found in tea; all of these names are synonyms for the same chemical compound.
Robusta, at 1.7-4.0% caffeine, has about twice as much caffeine as Arabica with 0.8-1.4%.
Does that surprise you? I just said my favorite coffee has less caffeine, and, because I like the really dark roast, it has even less caffeine. Recall that age old adage – the greener the bean the more the caffeine? No? Well that is how it goes and the fact is you can practically roast the caffeine right out of the beans. My French roast has less caffeine than a cup of Folger’s.
You are probably thinking “Good God Almighty! Why would she like coffee with less caffeine?”
Because it’s not about the buzz. It’s about the flavor, the warmth, the smell. It’s about my favorite mug snug in my hands and taking a few minutes to let myself wake up before I fling myself into the day. Honestly folks, why would I need a bunch of caffeine after I just slept all night? Now, ask me about my one cup in the afternoon, and that might be about caffeine, but the morning, the morning is about flavor, savor and time.
The gumshoe surveys his surroundings. Nothing to make him nervous, just a few people waking in the early morning light of the diner. He eyes each one as if to find the meaning of their lives hidden in the wrinkles of their faces. He sees no malice, no suspicion, no flickering glances that might reflect someone looking for him. The waitress returns with his cup o’ joe and he settles his mind into contemplating the events of the last few nights and his expectations for the day. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would find the key to unlocking this puzzle, somewhere in his mind he had yet to access. Now, at this moment, the puzzle pieces still lay jumbled. Mismatched notches, colors colliding, outside edges missing. It didn’t make sense, and that he finds disturbing.
His long arms reach with strangely graceful hands for the creamer in a little pot on a bed of ice in a bowl not two feet away. He pours a small trickle of white, it disappears into the night black of his cup o’ joe, turning it into the dark brown color of sand on some exotic beach half a world away. With a glance around the room again he lifts his spoon and, feeling comfortable with his surroundings, he puts his full attention on the stirring of the coffee, mixing the cream in slowly, contemplatively, round and round. As he does, like a kaleidoscope, the pieces of the puzzle move round and round in his mind.
I found this interesting: The average Arabica plant is a large bush with dark-green oval leaves. It is genetically different from other coffee species, having four sets of chromosomes rather than two. C. arabica is a tetraploid (44 chromosomes) and is self-pollinating.C. canephora ( robusta) is diploid and self-sterile, producing many different forms and varieties in the wild.
It takes seven to nine pounds of cherry to make one pound of roasted coffee. Thus 100 pounds of cherry will yield about 12 pounds of roasted coffee.
The first sip from the heavy white mug warms his body as if a campfire had been lit on the counter in front of him. He savors the warmth, his mind starts to defrost as he awakens the lingering memory of his night spent crouching in the bushes outside the bleak apartment building. The next sip follows, gliding smoothly into his body as his mind recalls every shadow, every sound. The palm fronds crossing the walk, shadows in the moonlight, the hushed roar of the nearby beach, the scent of gardenias and salt. The sound of footsteps echoing to his hiding place, his brief sight of shoes, first the red patent leather high heels of the dame and later, much later the well heeled boots of a heavy man transversing the same route.
He sips again and recalls the urgent knocking on the door of the second floor apartment. His line of sight was obscured, but the timing was right and no other steps had fallen on his ears in the meantime. The boots must have stood for a while, searching? Remembering? His mind replays the muffled thump, the strangled gasp, recalls the sight of the blood.
Many social aspects of coffee can be seen in the modern-day lifestyle. The United States is the largest market for coffee, followed by Germany and Japan. The Nordic countries consume the most coffee per capita, with Finland typically occupying the top spot with a per-capita consumption in excess of 10 kg per year, closely followed by Norway, Sweden and Denmark.
A woman's late-night invitation to a man for a cup of coffee (typically after a date) has become code for an invitation to sex. This convention has become the subject of a great deal of comedy, and the treatments given to it in Seinfeld (in the words of George Costanza: "'Coffee' doesn't mean coffee! 'Coffee' means sex!")
The light in the diner changes as the sun begins to rise. The gumshoe continues to contemplate the meaning of the recalled clues as he savors the warm cup o’ Joe. The taste of the brew seems to strengthen his resolve. The kaleidoscope of fragmented puzzle pieces swirls around and the disjointed parts begin to fall into place. He feels himself snap to attention, like a bird dog pointing, as the final clue fits and the picture is visible. He picks up the cup and swallows the last drops of warm, bitter nectar as his mind swallows the truth.
He reaches with long fingers into his pants pocket and extracts a dollar. Laying it on the counter he picks up his hat and swings himself off the stool. As he turns he again takes in every face around him, still searching for a glint of recognition. None comes. He knows where the trail points; he knows where he has to go. He walks across the diner as if led by an invisible thread, out the heavy door, bells jangling, out to the sidewalk already warm from the morning sun. It was going to be another hot day, sweat breaking under his collar as he turns east with confident steps, heading toward the answer.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Nom de Plume
I was thinking maybe I should have a Nom de plume. Nom de plume has nothing at all to do with bird feathers although that is what it brings to mind when I hear the phrase. Nom is the word for “name”, de translates as “of”, and plum is literally “pen”. Name of Pen. Nom de plume is the fancy French pen name for a pen name. Many writers have used Nom de plumes over the years, and maybe it’s one of those things ya just gotta have to be a writer.
Nome de plumes have been used for protecting a writers’ identity when they wanted to say something but were embarrassed to have it credited to them. So far I haven’t posted anything I might be embarrassed by, but who knows, at some point I might want to blather on about my years as an Osmond Brothers fan and maybe associating that with my given name, Meandering, would have long lasting repercussions.
Writers in Victorian times used Nome de plumes to fool the public into reading things written by – GASP!- females! Case in point: Emily Bronte writing as Ellis Bell and Karen Blixen publishing “Out of Africa” under the name Isak Dinesen.
Funny isn’t it? I mean, in those days you were not considered a well rounded female unless you had self published, to the delight of your proud father and joyous family members, at least a small volume of prose or a skillfully executed short novel just for fun (as in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, oh, and by the way, her name was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin), however public publishing was for men only.
In this day and age I don’t think I have to masquerade as a man, but at times I am amazed by the archaic attitudes still entrenched in some peoples tiny brains.
Some writers use nom de plumes because their names were too strange for public consumption, like Theodore Geisel, who wrote as Dr. Seuss,( oh yes doc, that's better, more normal sounding) Charles Lutwidge Dodgson better known as Lewis Caroll , Chloe Anthony Wofford, writer Toni Morrison, and my personal favorite - Mark Twain who was actually Samuel Langhome Clemens, and used Sieur Louis de Conte as his nom de plume for his nom de plume.
Another good example of this use of nom de plumes is Western novelist Pearl Gray who dropped his first name and changed the spelling of his last name to become Zane Grey, because he believed that his real name did not suit the Western genre. Smart move Pearl. And what the heck were Pearl’s parents thinking anyway, when they named him Pearl? It’s not like they were contemporaries of Frank Zappa!
Some writers used nom de plumes to make them sound more educated, like they might actually know what they were writing about, or possibly to entice the upper class into reading a contemporaries works. Maybe this is why Mary Westmacott became Dame Agatha Clarissa Mary Christie.
So, how could I come by a really fine nom de plume?
I went looking for ideas and found this: Japanese poets who write haiku often use a haiga or penname. The famous haiku poet Matsuo Bashō had used fifteen different haiga before he became fond of a banana plant (bashō) that had been given to him by a disciple and started using it as his penname at the age of 38.
WHAT? I swear, that is so Zen!
Well, OK, I have a nice philodendron bipinnatifidum I’m fond of, maybe I could use that for my nom de plume. I could change it a tad to be Phillis Dendron Bipinnatifi’dum. How’s that sound?
OH MY! Maybe I’ve just stumbled onto the secret of getting published! Maybe I would not have received those three rejection letters this week if, when I submitted my stories to magazines, I had used the appropriate nom de plume! I should resubmit my article to “Better Homes and Gardens” with my new nom de plume – Phillis Dendron Bipinnatifi’dum! It So Fits!
I could write for Cigar Aficionado as Charles Hector Anthony Hubert Esq.! I could publish snooty travel memoirs as Royal Dame Mary Martha Prudence Windsor!
I could keep my real name, Meandering, just for use in my blog, among friends, so to speak. After all, if I do blather on about some really embarrassing incident in the novel of my life, there is a good chance some of you would turn up as the other main characters, right? And ya’ll wouldn’t be laughing me out of blogdom, because you were involved too! So for now I’ll just sign off- Meandering
PS My research for this article turned up this little nugget- Anne Rice was born Howard Allen O'Brien- I’m just not going for it though, I met Anne Rice once and I’m pretty sure her parents did not name her Howard.
Nome de plumes have been used for protecting a writers’ identity when they wanted to say something but were embarrassed to have it credited to them. So far I haven’t posted anything I might be embarrassed by, but who knows, at some point I might want to blather on about my years as an Osmond Brothers fan and maybe associating that with my given name, Meandering, would have long lasting repercussions.
Writers in Victorian times used Nome de plumes to fool the public into reading things written by – GASP!- females! Case in point: Emily Bronte writing as Ellis Bell and Karen Blixen publishing “Out of Africa” under the name Isak Dinesen.
Funny isn’t it? I mean, in those days you were not considered a well rounded female unless you had self published, to the delight of your proud father and joyous family members, at least a small volume of prose or a skillfully executed short novel just for fun (as in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, oh, and by the way, her name was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin), however public publishing was for men only.
In this day and age I don’t think I have to masquerade as a man, but at times I am amazed by the archaic attitudes still entrenched in some peoples tiny brains.
Some writers use nom de plumes because their names were too strange for public consumption, like Theodore Geisel, who wrote as Dr. Seuss,( oh yes doc, that's better, more normal sounding) Charles Lutwidge Dodgson better known as Lewis Caroll , Chloe Anthony Wofford, writer Toni Morrison, and my personal favorite - Mark Twain who was actually Samuel Langhome Clemens, and used Sieur Louis de Conte as his nom de plume for his nom de plume.
Another good example of this use of nom de plumes is Western novelist Pearl Gray who dropped his first name and changed the spelling of his last name to become Zane Grey, because he believed that his real name did not suit the Western genre. Smart move Pearl. And what the heck were Pearl’s parents thinking anyway, when they named him Pearl? It’s not like they were contemporaries of Frank Zappa!
Some writers used nom de plumes to make them sound more educated, like they might actually know what they were writing about, or possibly to entice the upper class into reading a contemporaries works. Maybe this is why Mary Westmacott became Dame Agatha Clarissa Mary Christie.
So, how could I come by a really fine nom de plume?
I went looking for ideas and found this: Japanese poets who write haiku often use a haiga or penname. The famous haiku poet Matsuo Bashō had used fifteen different haiga before he became fond of a banana plant (bashō) that had been given to him by a disciple and started using it as his penname at the age of 38.
WHAT? I swear, that is so Zen!
Well, OK, I have a nice philodendron bipinnatifidum I’m fond of, maybe I could use that for my nom de plume. I could change it a tad to be Phillis Dendron Bipinnatifi’dum. How’s that sound?
OH MY! Maybe I’ve just stumbled onto the secret of getting published! Maybe I would not have received those three rejection letters this week if, when I submitted my stories to magazines, I had used the appropriate nom de plume! I should resubmit my article to “Better Homes and Gardens” with my new nom de plume – Phillis Dendron Bipinnatifi’dum! It So Fits!
I could write for Cigar Aficionado as Charles Hector Anthony Hubert Esq.! I could publish snooty travel memoirs as Royal Dame Mary Martha Prudence Windsor!
I could keep my real name, Meandering, just for use in my blog, among friends, so to speak. After all, if I do blather on about some really embarrassing incident in the novel of my life, there is a good chance some of you would turn up as the other main characters, right? And ya’ll wouldn’t be laughing me out of blogdom, because you were involved too! So for now I’ll just sign off- Meandering
PS My research for this article turned up this little nugget- Anne Rice was born Howard Allen O'Brien- I’m just not going for it though, I met Anne Rice once and I’m pretty sure her parents did not name her Howard.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
My Plot For a Horror Story
I drifted into the movie rental store yesterday. This is not something I do very often, as my local library carries a wide selection of slightly outdated but still excellent films. I ended up being a bit disappointed in the amount of horror and violence apparent in the selections available on the perimeter of the movie rental store. It has been a while since I rented and something seems to have changed. What happened to romantic comedy, family films, heroic adventure and film noir intrigue? Now we have guts, violence, guts, sex, and more guts.
There were way to many people on DVD covers screaming in anguish, cowering in fear and running for their lives. There were hideous monsters, horrible machines of torture and unidentified slimy things. There was way to much blood and random body parts being served up for our entertainment. I felt like I had to cross myself and next time I go in that store I’m wearing a garlic necklace. Who the heck is renting all this stuff and where are their parents while they are watching it? Who the heck is making all this stuff and how could they make a living like this and frankly, why would they want to? Haven’t they heard about that quantum theory that goes like this: You are what you eat- oh, wait , wrong one- this is it- Your life becomes like that which you focus your attention on.
After a close to complete circuit around the store I had zeroed in on two possible films for my evenings entertainment. There were a few others I thought might be good, and I made a mental note to check the library for them. Then I got to the A’s (I started with the Z’s) and my choice was clear. I ditched the romantic comedy starring nobody we know and the adventure starring nobody we know either.
I rented American Gangster, purely for aesthetic reasons, I mean Russell Crowe of course. Not that Denzel Washington is anyone to sneeze at, he was looking very fine too.
The story is a true one, about the corruption that comes with drugs and big money. The US military was flying heroin in from Asia during the Vietnam War. Yes, the US military! They stashed it in coffins along with our fallen soldiers, and you can’t tell me the brass didn’t know. The cops were protecting the drug kings, and in doing so earning their big money payola. People were dying right and left from these drugs but that didn’t seem to matter. Oh, except of course to the one good cop and his newly formed DEA buddies.
It just illustrates how large organizations can become involved in corruption, how the people who are suppose to be protecting you are not always doing that, what some people will do to protect their ass- ets, and how expendable people can be when there is a product like drugs that can make big money for some unsavory types.
I recommend the film, a little violent but very well done and full of aesthetic value.
Meanwhile, I’ve been working on my own plot for a horror story. A what if, if you will. It’s been rolling around in my meandering mind for a few weeks now, growing and changing. Now, anyone who knows Stephen King is welcome to pass this on to him, I don’t care if he steals my idea and makes it a best seller because it sure would be nice to see the story in print.
The story goes like this:
What if there was, say, a country full of abundance, a population full of bliss who could afford many luxuries? What if they all seemed happily occupied by their jobs, homes, electronic gadgets. What if all looked normal on the surface but something was terribly wrong? Part of the horror is in the realization that what looks normal may not be. Like Invasion of The Body Snatchers- nobody was really sure who was real and who was a monster! The setting for the story is rather normal feeling. Just homes in a town in a state in a country where the “everyday normal” stuff is happening. It all looks so serene.
What if at a very young age, all the people were injected with something that they were told would keep them healthy, but in reality, made them start to get sick? What if their bodies were having bad reactions to the injections, but the reactions didn’t show up right away in most people, so there was no way to know? What if parents were told this was the way to protect their kids, and the “Evil Empire” made the stuff by the bazillions of doses so there was plenty to go around and people had money so they didn’t mind paying to protect their kids, in fact, they were happy to do it. The parents had no idea what was in the injections.
What if when the people got sick, they were convinced that another injection or pill or potion would make them well, so that’s what they did. There were all kinds of drugs available, always a new remedy to give the ever increasing sick population. People were eating multiple pills, multiple times a day, and were all happy because they thought it would keep them young, alive, well. Meanwhile the “Evil Empire” was making huge fortunes off the drugs sold to the happy population.
What if the people were being exploited and didn’t even know it? What if they were fooled into thinking everything was normal? Like in Soylent Green! Remember that movie? Soylent Green, which was set in 1999 by the way, depicted a society where nothing was as it seemed and people were a commodity. What they were eating was in fact, each other – Oh the horror!
What if, in my horror story, the whole happy-go-lucky population was being farmed? The Evil Empire has turned the whole society into a farm full of people they could make sick. The people who were being farmed and made ill, would pay to get something that was supposed to make them well. The people spent their whole lives toiling away in their abundant society just so they could pay to be well. They spent alarming amounts of time in the horror of illness, disease and symptoms created in their bodies intentionally by the “Evil Empire”- Oh the horror!
What if the body farm includes a prison with out a cell? A prison of trip after trip to small cubicle offices where “smart guys” poke and prod with instruments and then give the people pills to take, pills that get rid of one symptom but cause another, which necessitates another trip to the cubicle?
What if some other unsavory types, like food producers, wanted a piece of the action, and teamed up with the “Evil Empire”? What if they introduced the prosperous population to all kind of designer foods that were really sweet, bright colored, full of chemicals, foods that looked and tasted good? BUT- what if all that food did was increase the chance that the population was going to get sick and need more drugs from the big drug kingpin- I mean- “Evil Empire”?
What if the population became suspicious and insisted on someone to oversee the safety of the drugs and food? They design a regulatory body to ease their minds and protect them from harm. What if the population doesn’t know that the regulatory body is on the take! Gasp – oh the horror! The regulatory body is protecting the Evil Empire and in doing so, they get their payola! They make huge amounts of money! They become rich and powerful!
I know, it all sounds far fetched, but doesn’t it make a good horror story?
Think of the horror as parents watch their children become introverted and silent after an injection, the horror of having a child born with no arms-just hands stuck to shoulders, waving in the breeze like five fingered wings, after the parent took a drug to stop the nausea of pregnancy. Think of the children being drugged as young as a few years old, and the horror of the parents when they find the number one side effect of this drug they have given their child is, in fact, suicide. Think of the horror of the parents when they find that a drug they gave their child so he could breathe better had turned his bones into spongy soft sticks that break all the time.
Think of the horror of masses of people with hearts that don’t work right, extreme body fat, blood sugar problems, breathing problems, sleep problems, attention problems, arthritis, pain, pain and more pain! They are trapped into being dependent on the “Evil Empire” and they don’t even know it! Think of the horror of a population of people getting old, but they can not die because the “Evil Empire” keeps feeding them stuff to keep them alive- but not well. As long as they are alive and sick, they are cash cows for the “Evil Empire”.
Most horror stories have an underdog- so in my story that would be the few people who figured the whole scheme out and refused to take part. They didn’t get the injections, they didn’t go to the cubicles, they didn’t take the pills, and they didn’t eat the foods that were enhanced. They, of course, were shunned and lived as outcasts on the edge of society. The “Evil Empire” said they were crazy, and most of the population believed it. They would pass their truth on to those who might listen, but few listened. They had to be careful what they did and said so the regulatory body would not hunt them down and stone them to death or shoot them in the head, which is what happened to the people in that other movie based on a true story, “The Constant Gardener”.
My God! I have an imagination don’t I? Scary isn’t it?
There were way to many people on DVD covers screaming in anguish, cowering in fear and running for their lives. There were hideous monsters, horrible machines of torture and unidentified slimy things. There was way to much blood and random body parts being served up for our entertainment. I felt like I had to cross myself and next time I go in that store I’m wearing a garlic necklace. Who the heck is renting all this stuff and where are their parents while they are watching it? Who the heck is making all this stuff and how could they make a living like this and frankly, why would they want to? Haven’t they heard about that quantum theory that goes like this: You are what you eat- oh, wait , wrong one- this is it- Your life becomes like that which you focus your attention on.
After a close to complete circuit around the store I had zeroed in on two possible films for my evenings entertainment. There were a few others I thought might be good, and I made a mental note to check the library for them. Then I got to the A’s (I started with the Z’s) and my choice was clear. I ditched the romantic comedy starring nobody we know and the adventure starring nobody we know either.
I rented American Gangster, purely for aesthetic reasons, I mean Russell Crowe of course. Not that Denzel Washington is anyone to sneeze at, he was looking very fine too.
The story is a true one, about the corruption that comes with drugs and big money. The US military was flying heroin in from Asia during the Vietnam War. Yes, the US military! They stashed it in coffins along with our fallen soldiers, and you can’t tell me the brass didn’t know. The cops were protecting the drug kings, and in doing so earning their big money payola. People were dying right and left from these drugs but that didn’t seem to matter. Oh, except of course to the one good cop and his newly formed DEA buddies.
It just illustrates how large organizations can become involved in corruption, how the people who are suppose to be protecting you are not always doing that, what some people will do to protect their ass- ets, and how expendable people can be when there is a product like drugs that can make big money for some unsavory types.
I recommend the film, a little violent but very well done and full of aesthetic value.
Meanwhile, I’ve been working on my own plot for a horror story. A what if, if you will. It’s been rolling around in my meandering mind for a few weeks now, growing and changing. Now, anyone who knows Stephen King is welcome to pass this on to him, I don’t care if he steals my idea and makes it a best seller because it sure would be nice to see the story in print.
The story goes like this:
What if there was, say, a country full of abundance, a population full of bliss who could afford many luxuries? What if they all seemed happily occupied by their jobs, homes, electronic gadgets. What if all looked normal on the surface but something was terribly wrong? Part of the horror is in the realization that what looks normal may not be. Like Invasion of The Body Snatchers- nobody was really sure who was real and who was a monster! The setting for the story is rather normal feeling. Just homes in a town in a state in a country where the “everyday normal” stuff is happening. It all looks so serene.
What if at a very young age, all the people were injected with something that they were told would keep them healthy, but in reality, made them start to get sick? What if their bodies were having bad reactions to the injections, but the reactions didn’t show up right away in most people, so there was no way to know? What if parents were told this was the way to protect their kids, and the “Evil Empire” made the stuff by the bazillions of doses so there was plenty to go around and people had money so they didn’t mind paying to protect their kids, in fact, they were happy to do it. The parents had no idea what was in the injections.
What if when the people got sick, they were convinced that another injection or pill or potion would make them well, so that’s what they did. There were all kinds of drugs available, always a new remedy to give the ever increasing sick population. People were eating multiple pills, multiple times a day, and were all happy because they thought it would keep them young, alive, well. Meanwhile the “Evil Empire” was making huge fortunes off the drugs sold to the happy population.
What if the people were being exploited and didn’t even know it? What if they were fooled into thinking everything was normal? Like in Soylent Green! Remember that movie? Soylent Green, which was set in 1999 by the way, depicted a society where nothing was as it seemed and people were a commodity. What they were eating was in fact, each other – Oh the horror!
What if, in my horror story, the whole happy-go-lucky population was being farmed? The Evil Empire has turned the whole society into a farm full of people they could make sick. The people who were being farmed and made ill, would pay to get something that was supposed to make them well. The people spent their whole lives toiling away in their abundant society just so they could pay to be well. They spent alarming amounts of time in the horror of illness, disease and symptoms created in their bodies intentionally by the “Evil Empire”- Oh the horror!
What if the body farm includes a prison with out a cell? A prison of trip after trip to small cubicle offices where “smart guys” poke and prod with instruments and then give the people pills to take, pills that get rid of one symptom but cause another, which necessitates another trip to the cubicle?
What if some other unsavory types, like food producers, wanted a piece of the action, and teamed up with the “Evil Empire”? What if they introduced the prosperous population to all kind of designer foods that were really sweet, bright colored, full of chemicals, foods that looked and tasted good? BUT- what if all that food did was increase the chance that the population was going to get sick and need more drugs from the big drug kingpin- I mean- “Evil Empire”?
What if the population became suspicious and insisted on someone to oversee the safety of the drugs and food? They design a regulatory body to ease their minds and protect them from harm. What if the population doesn’t know that the regulatory body is on the take! Gasp – oh the horror! The regulatory body is protecting the Evil Empire and in doing so, they get their payola! They make huge amounts of money! They become rich and powerful!
I know, it all sounds far fetched, but doesn’t it make a good horror story?
Think of the horror as parents watch their children become introverted and silent after an injection, the horror of having a child born with no arms-just hands stuck to shoulders, waving in the breeze like five fingered wings, after the parent took a drug to stop the nausea of pregnancy. Think of the children being drugged as young as a few years old, and the horror of the parents when they find the number one side effect of this drug they have given their child is, in fact, suicide. Think of the horror of the parents when they find that a drug they gave their child so he could breathe better had turned his bones into spongy soft sticks that break all the time.
Think of the horror of masses of people with hearts that don’t work right, extreme body fat, blood sugar problems, breathing problems, sleep problems, attention problems, arthritis, pain, pain and more pain! They are trapped into being dependent on the “Evil Empire” and they don’t even know it! Think of the horror of a population of people getting old, but they can not die because the “Evil Empire” keeps feeding them stuff to keep them alive- but not well. As long as they are alive and sick, they are cash cows for the “Evil Empire”.
Most horror stories have an underdog- so in my story that would be the few people who figured the whole scheme out and refused to take part. They didn’t get the injections, they didn’t go to the cubicles, they didn’t take the pills, and they didn’t eat the foods that were enhanced. They, of course, were shunned and lived as outcasts on the edge of society. The “Evil Empire” said they were crazy, and most of the population believed it. They would pass their truth on to those who might listen, but few listened. They had to be careful what they did and said so the regulatory body would not hunt them down and stone them to death or shoot them in the head, which is what happened to the people in that other movie based on a true story, “The Constant Gardener”.
My God! I have an imagination don’t I? Scary isn’t it?
Saturday, March 29, 2008
From The Same Flame.
I went to see “Horton Hears a Who” this week, and it was like licking a windowpane and I don’t mean the kind in your house if ya get my drift. If you don’t, well lets just say it was very colorful. I don’t remember the book really well, it was so long ago, but I can’t recall the part where the little yellow thingie (what ever it was) told Horton that she had an imaginary world where all the inhabitants were ponies that ate rainbows and pooped butterflies. Maybe I just don’t remember that part or maybe the film makers elaborated a tad. I did think it was interesting and entertaining imagery. Horton started questioning whether there might be something bigger than himself somewhere up above and that possibly his whole world was just a speck teetering on the edge of some huge flower. Yes Horton, we have all been there. So I was drifting off to sleep last night, with my bestest cat wrapped around my head like a furry thinking cap, and pondering that giant elephant in the sky. It got me to considering how we end up with our furry little friends. I imagined a huge being pulling hot coal out of the universal fire. The big being fanned the coal until a flame sprang forth. That was the human soul created. The being knew the heart of the human would long to return to the creator and would be lonely wandering the universe waiting for that day. The being felt compassion for the humans loneliness and decided to give the human a gift. The being held the flame in one hand and with the other pinched off a little piece of the flame and sent it spinning around the central flame. Like a little planet of fire orbiting a torch. Then the big being blew on the pair and sent them spinning off into the universe, one human and one pet soul, from the same flame. I think the being knew that the pet would not live as long as the human, and in making them from the same flame the being made them eternally inseparable. The pet soul would always return to the flame it was born of, life after life, and there by teach the human soul the truth of impermanence of all things and the true nature of love, ever changing but never ending. The human soul could also learn, if it were willing, the lesson that Horton and his friends learned. To be kind to all, for a soul is a soul, no matter how small.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Beyond the Pale
This town has more Irish bars than Boston and Chicago combined. There is one on every corner. It’s the kinda town that has Guinness and Smithwick’s on tap all year around. It’s one of those places that you can get a shamrock on your Guinness even if it isn’t St. Patrick’s Day.
Around here it’s very fashionable to be Irish. Ya know how on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish? Going round with “kiss me I’m Irish” buttons and those goofy green hats- well in this town, any day of the year you can ask someone’s name and have them reply- “me name is Paddy O’Martinez”, or “herself is Mary O’ Kczywinski”, or “I’tis Brendan O’Dusendorf”.
So a few nights ago I was out with a few friends. Our target was an Irish Bar that was hosting a fiddler’s weekend, and had a band from Canada playing. Now, you may not know this but Canada has some pretty fine traditional Irish bands. Canada also has some pretty fine non-traditional Irish Bands, techno-Irish bands, punk-Irish bands, modern rock-Irish bands, blue grass-Irish bands, classic rock-Irish bands and a few Rap-meets-Disco-Irish bands to boot.
So we get to the bar early thinking to stake out a good spot. But -by the saints- the place is already packed. It’s shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, knee to knee and toe to toe. After cooing to a couple of “old dudes” who make room for us to get close enough to yell an order and stick a fist full of cash through the mass of humanity adhered to the bar, we are rewarded with three tall glasses of Guinness.
In the time it takes to drink them we are pushed and shoved and stepped on and elbowed and accosted by any number of roving Irish wanna-bes. Our ears are on the verge of bleeding the din is so loud, and the band hasn’t even started yet. The fire marshal(who’s probably Irish too) must be out of town because there are 654 more people in the place than there were when we ordered our Guinness, and that makes a total of 3278 people in a bar that the fire marshal’s sign says can hold 200.
Now, one of my friends starts getting a bit edgy. She’s not Irish. She’s not used to the amount of closeness among the Irish evident in the situation. She tries getting her back against the bar, but that is impossible. Next she tries to find a wall to back up to, but the wall space is taken. She hides in the rest room for a while, but even that is crowded. She ends up jumping up on the stage which is empty because the band still hasn’t arrived and it’s an hour past the time they were going to start. Pretty soon the whole lot of us are up on the stage and the crowd, apparently never having seen the real band before, thinks we are a Girl-Power-Retro-Glam-Irish Band.
The crowd is like a school of fish. The tip of the crowd near the stage decides we must be the band and the entire school of 3278 liquored up O’Bollingers and O’D’Adarios moves as one right up to the stage expectant and relieved that the band is finally starting. They whistle and clap and jostle around to get a better spot.
Then they seem to realize, in one large awakening moment, that we are not holding instruments. No, there’s nary a Uillean Pipe nor a fiddle in sight. What we are holding is almost empty Guinness glasses. A collective light bulb goes on over the crowd. They are not the band someone murmurs, and the murmur grows like wildfire as it spreads from O’Dingindorf to O’ Castillo and on around the bar.
Unfortunately, this incident of mistaken identity just served to alert the 3278 liquored-up- almost-Irish-previously-unaware ( gimme another Guinness) spectators to the fact that the band was not in the house and it was now an hour and a half past show time. The murmurs accelerate and changed into something like “where the *%*!#@%! is the %*&!^% ing band”. We figured this was the ideal time to exit stage left, which was just a few elbowed steps from the building exit.
Being early yet, we agreed to head towards the car, but on the way, pop into any pubs we passed, just to take a peek and have a quick Guinness. I was happy to be the designated driver because it turned out there were 17 Irish pubs along the 2 block walk back to the car. My pseudo-Irish party friends were three sheets to the wind by the time I delivered them safely to my front door where the “everybody’s-to-mature-to-take-unnecessary risks-and-try-to-drive-home” impromptu pajama party was about to begin. After all, the wee ones were tucked away with their Aunties and Nannas, the wolf hounds were fed, and the wind was howling across the bog. No need to go beyond the pale.
Around here it’s very fashionable to be Irish. Ya know how on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish? Going round with “kiss me I’m Irish” buttons and those goofy green hats- well in this town, any day of the year you can ask someone’s name and have them reply- “me name is Paddy O’Martinez”, or “herself is Mary O’ Kczywinski”, or “I’tis Brendan O’Dusendorf”.
So a few nights ago I was out with a few friends. Our target was an Irish Bar that was hosting a fiddler’s weekend, and had a band from Canada playing. Now, you may not know this but Canada has some pretty fine traditional Irish bands. Canada also has some pretty fine non-traditional Irish Bands, techno-Irish bands, punk-Irish bands, modern rock-Irish bands, blue grass-Irish bands, classic rock-Irish bands and a few Rap-meets-Disco-Irish bands to boot.
So we get to the bar early thinking to stake out a good spot. But -by the saints- the place is already packed. It’s shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, knee to knee and toe to toe. After cooing to a couple of “old dudes” who make room for us to get close enough to yell an order and stick a fist full of cash through the mass of humanity adhered to the bar, we are rewarded with three tall glasses of Guinness.
In the time it takes to drink them we are pushed and shoved and stepped on and elbowed and accosted by any number of roving Irish wanna-bes. Our ears are on the verge of bleeding the din is so loud, and the band hasn’t even started yet. The fire marshal(who’s probably Irish too) must be out of town because there are 654 more people in the place than there were when we ordered our Guinness, and that makes a total of 3278 people in a bar that the fire marshal’s sign says can hold 200.
Now, one of my friends starts getting a bit edgy. She’s not Irish. She’s not used to the amount of closeness among the Irish evident in the situation. She tries getting her back against the bar, but that is impossible. Next she tries to find a wall to back up to, but the wall space is taken. She hides in the rest room for a while, but even that is crowded. She ends up jumping up on the stage which is empty because the band still hasn’t arrived and it’s an hour past the time they were going to start. Pretty soon the whole lot of us are up on the stage and the crowd, apparently never having seen the real band before, thinks we are a Girl-Power-Retro-Glam-Irish Band.
The crowd is like a school of fish. The tip of the crowd near the stage decides we must be the band and the entire school of 3278 liquored up O’Bollingers and O’D’Adarios moves as one right up to the stage expectant and relieved that the band is finally starting. They whistle and clap and jostle around to get a better spot.
Then they seem to realize, in one large awakening moment, that we are not holding instruments. No, there’s nary a Uillean Pipe nor a fiddle in sight. What we are holding is almost empty Guinness glasses. A collective light bulb goes on over the crowd. They are not the band someone murmurs, and the murmur grows like wildfire as it spreads from O’Dingindorf to O’ Castillo and on around the bar.
Unfortunately, this incident of mistaken identity just served to alert the 3278 liquored-up- almost-Irish-previously-unaware ( gimme another Guinness) spectators to the fact that the band was not in the house and it was now an hour and a half past show time. The murmurs accelerate and changed into something like “where the *%*!#@%! is the %*&!^% ing band”. We figured this was the ideal time to exit stage left, which was just a few elbowed steps from the building exit.
Being early yet, we agreed to head towards the car, but on the way, pop into any pubs we passed, just to take a peek and have a quick Guinness. I was happy to be the designated driver because it turned out there were 17 Irish pubs along the 2 block walk back to the car. My pseudo-Irish party friends were three sheets to the wind by the time I delivered them safely to my front door where the “everybody’s-to-mature-to-take-unnecessary risks-and-try-to-drive-home” impromptu pajama party was about to begin. After all, the wee ones were tucked away with their Aunties and Nannas, the wolf hounds were fed, and the wind was howling across the bog. No need to go beyond the pale.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Say Hello to Monday
I woke to a noise, not a clang or a gong,
It sounded more like small voices in song-
It's morning I’m sure, there is sun through the curtain
That noise I’m hearing –it’s a song I’m quite certain
But why am I awakened by this wee little song-
I’m alone in this bedroom, no, wait am I wrong?
And that is when I saw them.
It was Monday morning, a week ago that I encountered the vision. It’s taken me a whole week to process this terrifying event and encase it in cryptic verse. I was minding my own business, getting a few extra Z’s before the week started.
I usually start Monday morning by giving thanks. Thanks for the warm bed I slept in, thanks for the roof over my head, thanks for the wonderful people in my life, you know, just to start the week in a positive frame of mind.
Well, this particular Monday I woke to a wee song, it started out low, and then it started to grow, and the room was filled with the sound of a vision, and there they were.
Da hoo dor-a, dah hoo dor-a
Welcome Monday, bring your light
Da hoo dor-a, dah hoo dor-a
Welcome in the cold dark night
Welcome Monday, ba hoo ram as
Welcome Monday, ba hoo ram as
Welcome Monday while we stand
Heart to heart and hand to hand
Welcome, welcome, da hoo dar-a
Welcome, welcome da hoo dor-a
Monday morning’s in our grasp
Long as we have hands to clasp
Every Who down in Whoville, the big and the small
Every Who down in Whoville, the short and the tall
Hands clasped in a circle, the notes just a ringing
Swaying to and fro, all those Who voices signing!
They were clear as day with their holly wreaths, big furry feet, and round little faces and big buggy eyes. I could see their furry butts, long feathery fingers and goofy bow ties. They were all there, everyone prismatic- the colors so bright - striped bellies, two toned tummies and spiky hair in a rainbow of colors. (Except of course, Cindy Lou Who-who was no more than two- she was almost human looking so I have to assume she was adopted- and what’s up with her feet? Does she have any or was she put up for adoption by mutant mermaids?).
Now, I’m not one of those people who loathes Mondays. In fact, I like Mondays. I actually take a few minutes out of my Sunday to make a list of things I want to accomplish in the next week. I like to hit the ground running on Monday, because I know that the more I get done on Monday, the more wiggle room I have at the end of the week, so mid-week, when the you- know- what starts hitting the fan, I’ve got it covered. I like to start the week off in a happy fashion.
But this, this was just too much. I was frozen with fear. Terrified by the implications.
How the hell did those Whos get in my house? Was I having a nightmare or did I eat a three decker toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce from which I was suffering hallucinations? What would Freud say?
I hid under the covers and started my thanks, thank you for not making me a schizophrenic- You didn’t, did you? Thank you for my feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you for my sanity, thank you for the results of that recent brain scan that said I was perfectly normal.
I loosened the grip my lids had on my eyeballs and peeked out from under the covers. Nothing. It was quiet, they were gone, not a bistel bingler, or pan cuckler in sight to prove they had been here.
Now another Monday’s dawning, for me and for you
I hope on this Monday, you take a clue from a Who
If you’re one of those people, and get in that state
The start of the week, yes, Mondays you just seem to hate,
Take a moment to say thanks as the week ushers in
Let your heart grow three sizes and say "welcome" with a grin.
It sounded more like small voices in song-
It's morning I’m sure, there is sun through the curtain
That noise I’m hearing –it’s a song I’m quite certain
But why am I awakened by this wee little song-
I’m alone in this bedroom, no, wait am I wrong?
And that is when I saw them.
It was Monday morning, a week ago that I encountered the vision. It’s taken me a whole week to process this terrifying event and encase it in cryptic verse. I was minding my own business, getting a few extra Z’s before the week started.
I usually start Monday morning by giving thanks. Thanks for the warm bed I slept in, thanks for the roof over my head, thanks for the wonderful people in my life, you know, just to start the week in a positive frame of mind.
Well, this particular Monday I woke to a wee song, it started out low, and then it started to grow, and the room was filled with the sound of a vision, and there they were.
Da hoo dor-a, dah hoo dor-a
Welcome Monday, bring your light
Da hoo dor-a, dah hoo dor-a
Welcome in the cold dark night
Welcome Monday, ba hoo ram as
Welcome Monday, ba hoo ram as
Welcome Monday while we stand
Heart to heart and hand to hand
Welcome, welcome, da hoo dar-a
Welcome, welcome da hoo dor-a
Monday morning’s in our grasp
Long as we have hands to clasp
Every Who down in Whoville, the big and the small
Every Who down in Whoville, the short and the tall
Hands clasped in a circle, the notes just a ringing
Swaying to and fro, all those Who voices signing!
They were clear as day with their holly wreaths, big furry feet, and round little faces and big buggy eyes. I could see their furry butts, long feathery fingers and goofy bow ties. They were all there, everyone prismatic- the colors so bright - striped bellies, two toned tummies and spiky hair in a rainbow of colors. (Except of course, Cindy Lou Who-who was no more than two- she was almost human looking so I have to assume she was adopted- and what’s up with her feet? Does she have any or was she put up for adoption by mutant mermaids?).
Now, I’m not one of those people who loathes Mondays. In fact, I like Mondays. I actually take a few minutes out of my Sunday to make a list of things I want to accomplish in the next week. I like to hit the ground running on Monday, because I know that the more I get done on Monday, the more wiggle room I have at the end of the week, so mid-week, when the you- know- what starts hitting the fan, I’ve got it covered. I like to start the week off in a happy fashion.
But this, this was just too much. I was frozen with fear. Terrified by the implications.
How the hell did those Whos get in my house? Was I having a nightmare or did I eat a three decker toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce from which I was suffering hallucinations? What would Freud say?
I hid under the covers and started my thanks, thank you for not making me a schizophrenic- You didn’t, did you? Thank you for my feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you for my sanity, thank you for the results of that recent brain scan that said I was perfectly normal.
I loosened the grip my lids had on my eyeballs and peeked out from under the covers. Nothing. It was quiet, they were gone, not a bistel bingler, or pan cuckler in sight to prove they had been here.
Now another Monday’s dawning, for me and for you
I hope on this Monday, you take a clue from a Who
If you’re one of those people, and get in that state
The start of the week, yes, Mondays you just seem to hate,
Take a moment to say thanks as the week ushers in
Let your heart grow three sizes and say "welcome" with a grin.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Aghast I Tell You, Aghast!
So I was real busy this past week, hardly had time to write a note to myself. In all the scuttling about I was having a bit of writers block. I mean, I was getting ideas alright, but I wasn’t able to sit right down, right then, and pay attention to them and they seemed to flutter away with indignation. When I did have time to sit down and pay attention, they were off on some exotic vacation. Yes, I jotted notes, but a note does not a blog article make.
Then, it seemed suddenly the ideas were gone. The well was dry. I was experiencing the proverbial writers block. Rather than fret I decided to take two hours off from the world and watch an old movie. Elizabeth Taylor, Paris, The 40’s, sounded just divine.
So I start watching and I realize right away this is a movie about regrets, as the star (Van Johnson) walks around Paris with a wistful look on his face. He’s remembering things lost. Well. OK, so it’s not a comedy or a light hearted romantic romp. Still, in the dark depth of someone else’s misery can’t one find redemption? (Wow- that sounded good didn’t it? I wasn’t really thinking that but hey, who would know, right? I was actually thinking dang, I picked a sad movie, it didn’t say sad on the cover). I decided to watch it anyway.
So I start getting into this movie and I am aghast (Aghast just popped in my head so I looked it up, the definition was “filled with consternation”- oh, that’s helpful. I looked up consternation, the definition was “surprise and anxiety or dismay” Perfect!), aghast I tell you, I was aghast to find that the central story line is about the failure of Van Johnson to become a successful writer!
OH you twisted fate! How could I have picked this movie? Could it be a joke of the Gods, are they sitting up there laughing?
I watched in aghast as the writer-guy typed ferociously, pencil in mouth for those frequent stops to cross out and note a change. (Can you imagine? No cut and paste? No spell check? ). Pile of crumpled papers at his feet growing.
Finally! He is finished. Celebration! Wine, song, dancing! But then, the rejections start coming in. No one wants his great novel. They all say Oh, very nice, but sorry, doesn’t fit our needs at this time.
Time passes in movie land, Liz and Van have a child, start getting older, he writes a few more novels. Rejections are raining down on him. They sprout up at every turn. They follow him relentlessly. No one wants his novel, nor his novel #2, nor novel #3. He’s loosing it. He turns to the booze.
At this point I pause the film and grab a bottle of wine and a glass- hey, at least I used a glass, he was swiggin’ right from the bottle!
In movie land the relationship is flowing down the drain; they both take up running around with party people. He can’t think of a sentence to put on paper, his well has been pumped dry from all the rejection.
OK, I’m fine I tell myself as I pour another glass, I mean, hey- I’ve only received about 168 rejections for my first book. And the second one? Well, that’s just a small handful- say 87. I’m sure my well is not dry dry; it’s just temporarily slightly evaporated. I heard that Margaret Mitchell had somewhere around 350 rejections for Gone With The Wind before it got picked up- do you think she was hitting the bottle? Wait, It’s only a movie for heaven’s sake!
So the grand finale is coming, the writer is careening around like a sports car that popped a tire on a tight turn. He gets drunk on a cold, dark, rainy, sleety, nasty weather night. The wife is out with a “friend” so he comes home, puts the chain lock in place and passes out on the stairs. She comes home, can’t get in, walks across Paris to her sisters, catches pneumonia and dies. Bummer.
Good Lord Almighty! Madre Di Dios! Is this the vocation I’ve chosen for myself? Is this what happens to rejected writers? Is this the result of the well going dry? Am I gonna end up on skid row, a rejected, alcoholic writer with an accidental murder conviction?
Calm, remain calm, it’s just a movie. A writer’s ghost, a vision from some (F. Scott Fitzgerald) twisted writers mind. I wonder how many times the MS (that’s Manuscript- for those of you who are not in the “biz”) was rejected? I wonder how many times the screenplay was rejected?
It’s just a movie. I’m sure my well is about to gush. At least I haven’t accidentally killed my loved one.
Then, it seemed suddenly the ideas were gone. The well was dry. I was experiencing the proverbial writers block. Rather than fret I decided to take two hours off from the world and watch an old movie. Elizabeth Taylor, Paris, The 40’s, sounded just divine.
So I start watching and I realize right away this is a movie about regrets, as the star (Van Johnson) walks around Paris with a wistful look on his face. He’s remembering things lost. Well. OK, so it’s not a comedy or a light hearted romantic romp. Still, in the dark depth of someone else’s misery can’t one find redemption? (Wow- that sounded good didn’t it? I wasn’t really thinking that but hey, who would know, right? I was actually thinking dang, I picked a sad movie, it didn’t say sad on the cover). I decided to watch it anyway.
So I start getting into this movie and I am aghast (Aghast just popped in my head so I looked it up, the definition was “filled with consternation”- oh, that’s helpful. I looked up consternation, the definition was “surprise and anxiety or dismay” Perfect!), aghast I tell you, I was aghast to find that the central story line is about the failure of Van Johnson to become a successful writer!
OH you twisted fate! How could I have picked this movie? Could it be a joke of the Gods, are they sitting up there laughing?
I watched in aghast as the writer-guy typed ferociously, pencil in mouth for those frequent stops to cross out and note a change. (Can you imagine? No cut and paste? No spell check? ). Pile of crumpled papers at his feet growing.
Finally! He is finished. Celebration! Wine, song, dancing! But then, the rejections start coming in. No one wants his great novel. They all say Oh, very nice, but sorry, doesn’t fit our needs at this time.
Time passes in movie land, Liz and Van have a child, start getting older, he writes a few more novels. Rejections are raining down on him. They sprout up at every turn. They follow him relentlessly. No one wants his novel, nor his novel #2, nor novel #3. He’s loosing it. He turns to the booze.
At this point I pause the film and grab a bottle of wine and a glass- hey, at least I used a glass, he was swiggin’ right from the bottle!
In movie land the relationship is flowing down the drain; they both take up running around with party people. He can’t think of a sentence to put on paper, his well has been pumped dry from all the rejection.
OK, I’m fine I tell myself as I pour another glass, I mean, hey- I’ve only received about 168 rejections for my first book. And the second one? Well, that’s just a small handful- say 87. I’m sure my well is not dry dry; it’s just temporarily slightly evaporated. I heard that Margaret Mitchell had somewhere around 350 rejections for Gone With The Wind before it got picked up- do you think she was hitting the bottle? Wait, It’s only a movie for heaven’s sake!
So the grand finale is coming, the writer is careening around like a sports car that popped a tire on a tight turn. He gets drunk on a cold, dark, rainy, sleety, nasty weather night. The wife is out with a “friend” so he comes home, puts the chain lock in place and passes out on the stairs. She comes home, can’t get in, walks across Paris to her sisters, catches pneumonia and dies. Bummer.
Good Lord Almighty! Madre Di Dios! Is this the vocation I’ve chosen for myself? Is this what happens to rejected writers? Is this the result of the well going dry? Am I gonna end up on skid row, a rejected, alcoholic writer with an accidental murder conviction?
Calm, remain calm, it’s just a movie. A writer’s ghost, a vision from some (F. Scott Fitzgerald) twisted writers mind. I wonder how many times the MS (that’s Manuscript- for those of you who are not in the “biz”) was rejected? I wonder how many times the screenplay was rejected?
It’s just a movie. I’m sure my well is about to gush. At least I haven’t accidentally killed my loved one.
Friday, January 25, 2008
My brush with death, what death looks like, and why I don't think we should call him the grim reaper.
I recently had a brush with death. I don't know why they call it a brush with death, I don't think I brushed by him like you brush by others in a crowded store aisle. It felt more like I was a fish who happened to slide off death's line while he trying to reel me in.
I didn't exactly see the face of death, I mean, I was unconscious through most of it, except for a few times I surfaced and yes, it was like swimming up from a dark depth, just like they say on tv. Three times I surfaced long enough to think things like- what am I doing on the floor? What is that buzzing in my head? This must be a nightmare, but I don't remember going to bed. This can't be good. Oh no, what am I doing on the floor again? What is that buzzing in my head? I better call an ambulance, hope I can remember the number for 911. What is that buzzing noise? Damn, it happened again. I better call an ambulance. Oh, I'm in an ambulance, good idea.
So I didn't actually see the face of death but I'm pretty sure I felt his presence while I was laying on the floor. He was tip toeing around trying not to wake me.
At the hospital they figured I was a rather young ( and charming) cardiac case and they did all kinda scans and tests and what not and found nothing. So then they figured I was a head case and they did all kinda tests and scans and what not and found nothing. I had to wonder about their accuracy when they told me my brain was perfectly normal.
I let them them fish around for an answer for about a day and a half. I had to draw the line a couple of times. "No, you can't inject my blood stream with dye and send me through a tube with super magnets that make all the hydrogen atoms in my body spin on their axis. What? You want a better view of blood flow to my brain? Well, sweetie, you seem like a nice young doctor, why don't you just run down to the library and look up what all they did do to see brains better before they invented that MRI." ( answer: ultrasound of the carotid artries, non invasive, simple, and quite revealing). I figured they did the best they could and I checked myself outta there. I'm feeling fine now, I still don't have any answers, and I have to admit it got me thinking about death.
What happens when we die? Do we go somewhere? If we do, can we choose where we go? I'm just asking because I figure if we get to choose I want to go to my photo albums. I mean, think of it, that is where you have all your loved ones, your happy times, your wonderful vacations, every person and event you enjoyed enough to want to remember.
Do we just become nothingness? Return to the void? Sit at the right hand of God? Become one with all things? ( I thought we already were one with all things...) or is it just a blank?
Then I started thinking about the grim reaper. That's a name for death, right? "Death comes to get you". Well, if he's gonna escort me to my photo albums I don't think it's gonna be all that grim. Yes, I know it's really sad for those we leave behind, I know this because I've been left a few times, but grim? I've never seen what I would call a grim face at a wake. ( and why do they call it a wake? That's a whole 'nother article)I've seen sad, and tired, and distraught, and calm and pained and radiant and even cheerful but not grim. So I'm thinking it's a misnomer and theres gotta be a better name for the grim reaper.
Then I saw death. It came to me in a flash, a vision really. And to me, death looked just like a rodeo trick rider.
I swear I saw death ride up from behind me on a huge brown horse. Hooves thundering and kicking up clods of dirt, mane flapping, nostrils flaring, death's horse came at me like the devil himself was chasing it down. Death rode like a expert. He was dressed in faded jeans and leather chaps and worn, dusty cowboy boots with silver spurs shining. Death had on a denim shirt and a buckskin vest, a bandanna at his neck and big leather gloves reaching almost to his elbows, with fringe swaying up the sides. Death had long hair tied in a pony tail and a real fine brown suede cowboy hat. No, I didn't see his face.
Death and his horse came thundering up behind me and death let go the reins and slid off the saddle so he was hanging on just one side of that horse. His weight was balanced on one stirrup, his other leg gripping the horse and saddle. Both arms were out stretched and as he passed I held up a hand and he reached out and grabbed me by the hand and around the waist and flung me right up on the back of that big horse without slowing down one bit. A warm, dry wind was flowing through my hair and I put an arm around death and looked up to take in the brilliant sunset we were heading into. I was thinking this is gonna be fun.
So maybe the grim reaper should be called "Billy Bob" or "Tex", or "Alabama Slim", or "Ol dog eyed Joe" or some other fine cowboy name. "yep, siree 'Ol Bobby Sue come and took grandmammy home last night". See, doesn't that sound better? And maybe we could leave out piles of oats for death's horse like we leave straw for santa's reindeer....ok, now you think I'm crazy...but really....
Now, I'm not sure when that 'ol cowboy is gonna show up, but I'm not worried about it and I'm certainly not afraid. I've always liked cowboys, and that whole riding like the wind, get along little doggies, where the deer and the antelope play thing, and if my vision has shown me who's gonna escort me to the afterlife, I'm sure it will be a really fine ride.
I didn't exactly see the face of death, I mean, I was unconscious through most of it, except for a few times I surfaced and yes, it was like swimming up from a dark depth, just like they say on tv. Three times I surfaced long enough to think things like- what am I doing on the floor? What is that buzzing in my head? This must be a nightmare, but I don't remember going to bed. This can't be good. Oh no, what am I doing on the floor again? What is that buzzing in my head? I better call an ambulance, hope I can remember the number for 911. What is that buzzing noise? Damn, it happened again. I better call an ambulance. Oh, I'm in an ambulance, good idea.
So I didn't actually see the face of death but I'm pretty sure I felt his presence while I was laying on the floor. He was tip toeing around trying not to wake me.
At the hospital they figured I was a rather young ( and charming) cardiac case and they did all kinda scans and tests and what not and found nothing. So then they figured I was a head case and they did all kinda tests and scans and what not and found nothing. I had to wonder about their accuracy when they told me my brain was perfectly normal.
I let them them fish around for an answer for about a day and a half. I had to draw the line a couple of times. "No, you can't inject my blood stream with dye and send me through a tube with super magnets that make all the hydrogen atoms in my body spin on their axis. What? You want a better view of blood flow to my brain? Well, sweetie, you seem like a nice young doctor, why don't you just run down to the library and look up what all they did do to see brains better before they invented that MRI." ( answer: ultrasound of the carotid artries, non invasive, simple, and quite revealing). I figured they did the best they could and I checked myself outta there. I'm feeling fine now, I still don't have any answers, and I have to admit it got me thinking about death.
What happens when we die? Do we go somewhere? If we do, can we choose where we go? I'm just asking because I figure if we get to choose I want to go to my photo albums. I mean, think of it, that is where you have all your loved ones, your happy times, your wonderful vacations, every person and event you enjoyed enough to want to remember.
Do we just become nothingness? Return to the void? Sit at the right hand of God? Become one with all things? ( I thought we already were one with all things...) or is it just a blank?
Then I started thinking about the grim reaper. That's a name for death, right? "Death comes to get you". Well, if he's gonna escort me to my photo albums I don't think it's gonna be all that grim. Yes, I know it's really sad for those we leave behind, I know this because I've been left a few times, but grim? I've never seen what I would call a grim face at a wake. ( and why do they call it a wake? That's a whole 'nother article)I've seen sad, and tired, and distraught, and calm and pained and radiant and even cheerful but not grim. So I'm thinking it's a misnomer and theres gotta be a better name for the grim reaper.
Then I saw death. It came to me in a flash, a vision really. And to me, death looked just like a rodeo trick rider.
I swear I saw death ride up from behind me on a huge brown horse. Hooves thundering and kicking up clods of dirt, mane flapping, nostrils flaring, death's horse came at me like the devil himself was chasing it down. Death rode like a expert. He was dressed in faded jeans and leather chaps and worn, dusty cowboy boots with silver spurs shining. Death had on a denim shirt and a buckskin vest, a bandanna at his neck and big leather gloves reaching almost to his elbows, with fringe swaying up the sides. Death had long hair tied in a pony tail and a real fine brown suede cowboy hat. No, I didn't see his face.
Death and his horse came thundering up behind me and death let go the reins and slid off the saddle so he was hanging on just one side of that horse. His weight was balanced on one stirrup, his other leg gripping the horse and saddle. Both arms were out stretched and as he passed I held up a hand and he reached out and grabbed me by the hand and around the waist and flung me right up on the back of that big horse without slowing down one bit. A warm, dry wind was flowing through my hair and I put an arm around death and looked up to take in the brilliant sunset we were heading into. I was thinking this is gonna be fun.
So maybe the grim reaper should be called "Billy Bob" or "Tex", or "Alabama Slim", or "Ol dog eyed Joe" or some other fine cowboy name. "yep, siree 'Ol Bobby Sue come and took grandmammy home last night". See, doesn't that sound better? And maybe we could leave out piles of oats for death's horse like we leave straw for santa's reindeer....ok, now you think I'm crazy...but really....
Now, I'm not sure when that 'ol cowboy is gonna show up, but I'm not worried about it and I'm certainly not afraid. I've always liked cowboys, and that whole riding like the wind, get along little doggies, where the deer and the antelope play thing, and if my vision has shown me who's gonna escort me to the afterlife, I'm sure it will be a really fine ride.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Four Pawed Purring Turban
I think there are two types of people in the world, those who love cats and those who don't.
Just like there are two kinds of people when it comes to living in the southwest desert. there are those who arrive, are enchanted ( the light, the vastness, the colors!) and vow to never leave; and those who arrive, start to whine (there's no green, it's to hot, it's to dry, my wood furniture is cracking , I miss the rain, I found a 5 inch poisonous millipede in my bathtub. whine!) and can't wait for the economy to pick up "back east" so they can go home.
But I confess, I digress.
If you are one of those who have not yet been enchanted by cats, let me clue you in. Research shows cats heal! Yes, hallelujah, praise the lord and be healed.
Apparently someone asked these questions- why do cats ( from the big wild cats to the smallest domestic) purr when they are sick and injured? Aren't they only supposed to do this when content and relaxed? And then they set about figuring out why.
You can read the whole story here:
http://www.animalvoice.com/catpurrP.htm
In a nutshell folks it says that the frequency of a cats purr aids in tissue healing and increases lung function. This is not really that far out, I mean , for years the medical profession has been using electrical frequency to repair and build bone cells.
So the researchers took it one step further and asked, if the purr helps heal the cats injuries, can it heal someone who hears the cat purr? The answer? Yes. So now you can buy a CD with the sound of a cat purring to listen to when you are sick or injured. Personally I would rather have my very own cat purring in my ear.
I was thinking of this as I lay in bed and listened to the cat who was wrapped around my head. Now, if you are a cat person you know it's not unusual to find a cat wrapped around your head. In fact, for years it was thought that a cat could steal your dreams by wrapping around your head, but I haven't found that to be true. Maybe it just allows them to listen in.
If you are not a cat person, it might seem a little odd to wake with a four pawed purring turban, but believe me it's worth every nip on the nose, lick on the eyeball and little paw in the ear. I've got no problem with picking a cat hair outta my eye lashes now and then, or waking up and finding my pillow is under the cat instead of my head. It's worth it to awake to the healing purr of a cat.
I always take a moment to just press my ear against him and listen. I let my mind find the vibrational frequency and my breath find the rhythm of his purr. I may not be sick or injured, but hey, a little healing vibe can't hurt, and it's a relaxing and comforting way to start the day.
So I was thinking, isn't this a really good, scientifically proven example of the way nature heals? Maybe those feline worshiping Egyptians were right after all, maybe cats do have incredible powers we haven't fully realized.
Even if you are not hep to the new age lingo and theories of energy and chakras and all that, I'm sure you have heard at least a whisper of what the new quantum physics tells us about this energy field we live in. There is energy all around us, and everything is connected, right? And maybe nature was designed or evolved to give us everything we need. We just have to listen.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Why I love disaster films!
I love disaster films.
Give me a huge meteorite headed straight for earth, or any one word related to nature titled film-
Volcano!
Tsunami!
Earthquake!
Hurricane!
Tornados!
Comet!
Blizzard!
Artic Ice Storm!
(OK, yes, I made the last one up, just because of where I’m living right now…)
And giant mutant lizards and never before seen aberrations of nature sized monkeys and living dinosaurs either forgotten by time or created in the lab from DNA found in the blood of a mosquito stuck in amber a few eons ago.
I’ll take anything from some unknown planet, from some far reach of the galaxy, with some unknown intent and design for human kind from “To Serve Man” (It’s a cookbook!) to Alien (Does it always drool like that or just when it’s about to eat?) as long as there is not an overabundance of blood and gore.
You can keep the wild eyed slashers, the limb chewing, hazy eyed zombies and the demons that make the walls bleed. I’m not looking for a gross fest, just a nail biting, blanket tunneling, small jump with a little shriek good time.
Because honestly, nothing makes my life seem as quiet, easy and sane as watching a disaster film. I mean, hey, my life is perfectly fine, at least I’m not stuck in the back of an overturned truck with a T-rex trying to nuzzle it’s way through the window.
And yes, it may be snowing but the sun has not, I repeat, has not imploded and the entire world has not frozen solid in a matter of seconds, and we do not have to live in tunnels to avoid freezing.
I mean, how can I possibly be concerned about the infintesimal problems in my life when I’ve just survived the War of the Worlds or Armageddon?
Problems?
Yes.
Prozac?
No thanks, just give me a handful of disaster films and a few hours to watch them and I will be just fine.
Give me a huge meteorite headed straight for earth, or any one word related to nature titled film-
Volcano!
Tsunami!
Earthquake!
Hurricane!
Tornados!
Comet!
Blizzard!
Artic Ice Storm!
(OK, yes, I made the last one up, just because of where I’m living right now…)
And giant mutant lizards and never before seen aberrations of nature sized monkeys and living dinosaurs either forgotten by time or created in the lab from DNA found in the blood of a mosquito stuck in amber a few eons ago.
I’ll take anything from some unknown planet, from some far reach of the galaxy, with some unknown intent and design for human kind from “To Serve Man” (It’s a cookbook!) to Alien (Does it always drool like that or just when it’s about to eat?) as long as there is not an overabundance of blood and gore.
You can keep the wild eyed slashers, the limb chewing, hazy eyed zombies and the demons that make the walls bleed. I’m not looking for a gross fest, just a nail biting, blanket tunneling, small jump with a little shriek good time.
Because honestly, nothing makes my life seem as quiet, easy and sane as watching a disaster film. I mean, hey, my life is perfectly fine, at least I’m not stuck in the back of an overturned truck with a T-rex trying to nuzzle it’s way through the window.
And yes, it may be snowing but the sun has not, I repeat, has not imploded and the entire world has not frozen solid in a matter of seconds, and we do not have to live in tunnels to avoid freezing.
I mean, how can I possibly be concerned about the infintesimal problems in my life when I’ve just survived the War of the Worlds or Armageddon?
Problems?
Yes.
Prozac?
No thanks, just give me a handful of disaster films and a few hours to watch them and I will be just fine.
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