— this is really happening

October, 2007 Monthly archive

White chocolate, no matter how pretty the packaging, just can’t hold up in a ring against any kind of dark chocolate. Period. I don’t care if the white chocolate sprung from the fingertips of Buddha on the top of Mt. Holyoke. It’s a no contest situation. 🙂

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Metaphorically speaking, I’ve been on a long train ride home for the past 3 days. I’m passing old vacations in Italy with my parents. I’m touching the stalks of the sunflowers in our backyard on Neuman Lane. I’m crossing the acorned playground dressed as an Ewok in third grade. Receiving a teal necklace from my first boyfriend, Thoryn Burke (later revealed stolen from his older sister). I’m feeling like a kid, dressing the part, too. Tearing up the garage and finding old pictures, books, drawings. It’s epic internal soupy happy. It’s fall. Gosh, and you don’t remember, but I do: the eye patches, the eye exercises, the eye doctors, and the twelve, maybe fourteen pairs of glasses growing up. Remembering each little, delicate age. And, I can’t seem to get enough of this song; the whole journey home feels just like it. The Venice Dreamer.

Happy Halloween! Remember your costume from each year, if you can.

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Meant to get these up last night when I took them. They are good accoutrement to George Winston’s Summer, which is my album for the day. Carry on, friends.

blog-crossdastreet.jpgSunset yesterday 

Hug your partner!

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The wowie zowie in-browser Google search bar is a terrifyingly handy instrument. That as I begin to type, the handy thing foresees what I’m about to search and offers suggestions, is just a miracle. This morning it clairvoyantly hunched that by typing "Napo," I was really after "Napoleon Dynamite quotes." Can we all join together in a unanimous WTF? I have to admit that today’s direct hit gave me the willies. I offer my deepest condolences to the jilted Napoleon Bonaparte who was sadly 11th or 12th in the list of "Napo" search returns.

Anyway, the call for the 10am "Napo" search stems from a video link I just received. I had to quickly tell y’all that Napoleon’s famed would-be fictitious animal, the liger, is actually very real. I’m going to rate this video PG-13, despite there being nothing gruesome about it. The beast is just nightmarishly gargantuan; it could easily smear Jabba the Hut with a pinky claw. So it’s only fair to warn you. But he’s pretty darn cute too. Rawr.

Deb: What are you drawing?
Napoleon Dynamite: A liger.
Deb: What’s a liger?
Napoleon Dynamite: It’s pretty much my favorite animal. It’s like a lion and a tiger mixed… bred for its skills in magic.

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Marathon training skillz and killz. Longest run yet was hit today: 6.3 miles. It suuuucked. And it was sooooo good. While I ran I thought a lot about the brilliant story of that wild bird Jon Krakauer ascending Everest at the famous Hillary Step moment. Ok, this aint Everest; hold those horses, Way. It could be a bit premature to compare these little dust particles of hills to the Nepalese crags and peaks. For one, these Berkeley Hills are wide and I’m not going to fall down any 1500 ft ice cracks or gaping cols if I misstep as I run. But the point is, we’re starting to get to know each other, me and the hills, in our own flirty way. And like Krakauer says, "the Earth starts to talk funny things to you when you go up it."

So, walking home tonight under the 2am moonbow with a Frodo-Before-He-Leaves-The-Shire step frolick step, I didn’t blame the hills at all for the long walk home. Although my suspenders were riding up my suit pants, and my reporter’s antique camera hung heavy on the thick leather rope around my neck, my legs are stronger. My appreciation for sore muscles+hills is unfurling and my run earlier, hair still blown sideways, revved me up like a battery. Halloween costume, or not, I think I’ll take my trick or treating up Spruce so I can feel that thumping heart beat as I descend home.

It turns out that the best way to be a good runner is just to run. Daring greatly to fail. The body doesn’t lie. Achievment isn’t a matter of magic at all; it’s about ordinariness.

Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and true
they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.

~Philip Levine

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Bjork is on the money. There is no map to human behaviour. (Note the British English "u".) But I discovered this evening that even a newbie athlete revival act like myself can instantly become a cartographer and a runner, as long as the internet is involved. I found a new toy. MapMyRun.com is a site that allows me to trace all my runs on a map, name them (this part is fun), rate them, check distances, email my routes to friends (watch out, friends), track my progress, and about 14 million other buttons and knobs I’ll probably never use (such as the "How do you rate your Personal Morale today?" drop down menu). Not saying it’s my new bible, or nothin’, just a cool tool for the new shcool.

(Re-post: Thank you, my friend from far across the big Earth water, over many gulls and fish. Typos were indeed all over the place in this post. All mended now.)

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My wireless keyboard arrived. A little crack providing life-supporting moisture to a blade of grass in the concrete. My office is apparently becoming more suitable every day, and yet. And yet, and yet. I am beginning to see the paradox in my thee-suss. To work by computer, holed up and howling in a comfortable padded chair. Condemned to a clever, snarling padded chair. I watch closely for the small envelope icon to summon momentary escape. I futz with the piece of tape that’s stuck on my scissors.

I do not believe in isolation with machines.

Funny then, that this leaded life can conventionally seem to be the only way to build a written work like a thesis. Here, by pointy, vivid desk lamp lume. Here, with sound of computer fan spinning. Here, inside the buzzing neon sign. I keep waiting for someone to gently rest warm hands on my shoulders. Pull me up to the clouds.

My thesis is about the physiological effects of capitalism and how the simple joy of touching has been lost over thousands of years. Forgive my greenwash, but as we each can naturally intuit, there’s all this stuff everywhere instead. It’s kind of, uhm, distracting. And so hearing my vex, my incredible mentor who names things so well, said it seems like a paradox to write about touch, and to do it alone, over hours of cashed work, untouching and working on a keyboard?? Yes! I said! Yes, exactly! But it needn’t be. accompanied by a full horizon breath, and a staring nod. Ask the question from your pelvis she said, and see if it feels differently.

OK. I felt embarassed, but I did ask from there… and before much time at all… I was crying.

They’re telling me that inside all this paralysis there are answers with new angles. Relieved, cheeks wet. I want to argue the toss, I guess. Argue it with hips that move like the ocean. Touch for social change. Write the academic paper and plant the process with something new, less mechanical, out under the high sun. If only the back of my chair were made of hands.

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