come back

maybe, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It quite often happens that the old man is subject to the delusion of a great moral renewal and rebirth, and from this experience he passes judgments on the work and course of his life, as if he had only now become clear-sighted; and yet the inspiration behind this feeling of well-being and these confident judgments is not wisdom, but weariness.

-- Frederich Nietzsche

fashionable

in solidarity, originally uploaded by McBeth.

I have a full, rich respect for fashion. I love its whimsy, its humor, its charm and its rewards. I love its vagaries and its demands. I love what it does for women. But I know, with all my heart, that no woman should follow it blindly.

-- Loretta Young

I am beautiful.

no matter what they say, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Every day is so wonderful
And suddenly its hard to breathe
Now and then I get insecure
From all the pain
I'm so ashamed

I am beautiful
No matter what they say
Words can't bring me down
I am beautiful
In every single way
Yes, words can't bring me down

So, don't you bring me down today

To all your friends you're delirious
So consumed in all your doom
Trying hard to fill the emptiness
The pieces gone
Left the puzzles undone
That's the way it is

You are beautiful
No matter what they say
Words can't bring you down
You are beautiful
In every single way
Yes, words can't bring you down

So, don't you bring me down today

No matter what we do
No matter what we say
We're the song inside the tune,
Full of beautiful mistakes
And everywhere we go,
The sun will always shine
And tomorrow we might wake on the other side

Cause we are beautiful
No matter what they say
Yes, words won't bring us down, no
We are beautiful
In every single way

Yes, words can't bring us down today

-- Christina Aguielara
*lyrics

i'm finding...

I'm a finder. I find a lot of things. A lot of things.

Frequently, I find items that look like pieces of fallen-off bits from appliances which I then use to play the game 'what do you suppose THIS is?', in which I am my own Monty Hall game host as well as the shrieking excitable contestant dressed up like a pickle. And I often go for Door #3 because c'mon, who doesn't dream of owning a donkey with saddlebags filled with fabulous Rice-A-Roni?! It's the San Franciscan treat, you know. And if I was to take my new donkey TO San Francisco, I'm pretty sure I'd get around those tall hills a lot quicker.

I try to walk with my head up and my eyes toward the horizon; I have the best intentions of being aware of the world around me, but in truth I forget about my take it all in intentions, inevitably reverting back to my more usual ground scan.

Last Sunday morning I skipped out the door of KD's apartment with seven shiny quarters in my coat pocket to buy a newspaper from one of the three nearby newspaper boxes. I've come to appreciate the intimacy and quiet of my brief Sunday morning forays; the peaceful quiet of empty streets is magical, with only the occasional dog walker or jogger passing by. Everyone else is either busy making potato pancakes or sleeping off their Saturday night whiskey soaking or at a house of worship getting another weekly dose of brotherly love. Each time I head out to retrieve the Sunday newspaper I'm newly appreciative of the reduced activity and the barely there noise. I can hear the birds chirping on empty streeted Sunday mornings.

Finding a newpaper in KD's neighborhood is like a slot machine designed for the chronically cheap casinophobe. Of the three nearby newspaper stands there is never more than one that has been stocked, and it makes guessing which one will be the big jackpot all the more entertaining. I stepped out to cross an intersection to reach box #1* when I noticed something colorful laying in the road. There were three little metal dog tags -one silver, one blue, one red - laying together in the shape of a very small fan. I picked them up to look them over for clues about who the tagless dog might be or where its owner might live. The silver tag was the proof from a Janesville veterinary clinic of mystery pooch's 2006 rabies vaccination. The red tag was for a 2007 Madison dog license. The blue bone-shaped tag provided a name, address and phone number: while the telephone number listed a local area code, the address pointed to a Minnesota address. I considered leaving the tags where I'd found them. Maybe the tags were freshly-lost? Maybe someone will retrace their walking path to find them? Might I possibly be messing with some sort of balance by inserting myself into a situation that wasn't even mine?

After a few minutes' thinking I decided on a plan of attack: I'd pick up the metal tags, carry them back to KD's house where I'd try calling the local telephone number listed under the Minnesota address. If the owner's phone number was current, I figured, I'd be able to reunite dog with tags and, if not, I'd put the tags back exactly where I'd found them knowing at the very least that I'd tried to help. Little metal dog tags tucked into deep pockets of a thick winter coat can get a little lost down there in the bottom, and they did. Until yesterday that is, when in the process of emptying all 400 pockets for an end-of-season coat laundering I re-found them. I didn't want to lose track of them again so I immediately called the telephone number. Nobody answered, but a man's voice greeted my call with the usual 'I can't come to the phone, leave a message' greeting. The message I left included my first name, my telephone number, and the story of how I'd found his dog's tags and an offer to meet somewhere public to reunite them. I hung up my telephone wondering if I'd ever hear back from Mister Dog Tags.

I'd just finished my breakfast oatmeal this morning and was headed back downstairs to the kitchen for a coffee refill when my telephone rang. I didn't recognize the name displayed on the phone's caller ID and nearly let the call go to my voice mailbox but, because I have a number of job applications hanging out there in the ether, I thought it best to answer the call on that off chance it was an employer calling to say 'hey, we'd love for you to work for us!'. It was not a potential employer; it was Dog Tag Guy (also known as Joe), thrilled that the mystery of the dropped dog tags now had a conclusive and happy ending. We've set up a plan to get his tags back to him tomorrow. I am relieved; both for not having had to return unclaimed tags to the street where I'd originally found them and that I didn't mess anything up by my attempts to help.

While I've been working through the dog tag reunion (Peaches & Herb would say it feels so good. Even though I cringe at disco era tunage, I cannot disagree with them.) I've been doing my regular thaang. Exercising, making meals, cleaning, making plans to visit family in IA City for the newest niece's baptism, stuff like that. On Tuesday, or maybe it was Wednesday, I popped on my girlie pink Crocs and loped across the parking lot, then the street, toward the cluster mailboxes on the other side. Something shiny caught my eye (the story of my life) so I bent down to get a better look. Stuck in the mucky brown of melting curb ice I saw what looked like a fragment of glass perfectly positioned to reflect the sun up from the street grit. I collected my mail and took another look at the glass which then seemed less a fragment than a whole real thing. It was, in fact, a 2" triangle shaped glass vase. Now how in the world does something like that find its way to someplace like there? And what in the world do you put in such a tiny thing? I can think of no possible way to reconnect a 2" glass vase with its owner, so I've placed the sweet little vase in a prominent place on my computer desk in hopes that eventually - like, when winter finally gets the hint we've been dropping for weeks that she's worn out her welcome and now needs to go the heck away - I might be able to find a dandelion or a violet to stick into the teeny-tiny vase neck for a wee floral pick-me-up.

These finding jags seem to happen in clusters then cease for a while, until they happen again. I supposed that this current jag was finished after the dog tags and the glass vase and that I would now be able to get back to other navel-gazing issues.

Until last night, when KD and I visited the gym for a non-exercise night of whirlpool soaking and eucalyptus steam room (read: someone(s) may have pushed just a liiiittle too optimistically on last night's leg muscle portion of our circuit training routine). After an hour or so, we'd steamed and soaked ourselves into 90% noodle-y-ness and agreed that if we didn't leave soon we wouldn't be leaving at all. We returned to the women's locker room to shower and dress. I popped the lock on my locker, grabbed my shower products, headed into the shower room and arbitrarily picked an unoccupied shower stall. As I sat down shampoo and body wash containers on the small corner shelf I noticed something already sitting there. It was a pendant. No chain, no owner, no explanation ... I left it where it was, expecting that the owner would come flying back into the shower room to pick up what she'd accidentally left on the shelf. But nobody came back, not during the entirety of my hair washing and skin de-chlorination. Shower completed, I tiptoed on wet feet back into the locker room, asking the other women in there if they'd misplaced any jewelry ... nope. no. uh-uuh. thanks for asking, but I didn't.

I've had spotty luck (read: sucktastic luck. no luck at all) retrieving personal items accidentally left at the gym, and I've also had my personal items stolen from right under my nose (e.g., my big huge wonderful sage green bath sheet -- while I was there, IN the sauna, several mere feet away from the towel rack. I secretly hope whoever took it self-combusted on their way home because dude, that was totally rude), and because of this I elected not to entrust the gym employees with the return of the pendant to its owner. This time I stopped at the main desk, explained to an employee that I'd found a pendant in the women's locker room and that I'd like to get it back to whoever lost it. She handed me a notebook the staff uses every day to communicate new news or important notes in which I wrote a brief note explaining the situation, my first name, my telephone number, and the caveat that whoever calls must provide a description of their missing item. I'm really hoping that whoever lost her jewelry will track her way back to the reception desk so we can reconnect owner with lost thing.

I continue to wonder a.) if things really do happen in threes and w.) if this last item will be the conclusion of my latest finding jag. It's been a delight but I really do have to get back to figuring out the random bits off appliances I come across when I walk with my eyes down.

* No newspapers in box #2, nor in box #2. Turned out, box #3 held the jackpot. Which is, y'know cool and all, but it also meant that I lost the bet I made with myself: I was sure I'd find the Sunday newspaper before I reached #3.



{the second image may or may not be an image of the pendant I found, but if you happen to be a local gym rat looking for some new bling, I suggest you not make conclusive assumptions. I'm kindhearted but I'm not stupid.}

one or the other

Madison Peace Coalition, originally uploaded by McBeth.

You can have peace. Or you can have freedom. Don't ever count on having both at once.

-- Robert Heinlin

coordination

green balloon, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Physicists have determined that even the most solid and heavy mass of matter we see is mostly empty space. But at the submicroscopic level, specks of matter scattered through a vast emptiness have such incredible density and weight, and are linked to one another by such powerful forces, that together they produce all the properties of concrete, cast iron and solid rock. In much the same way, specks of knowledge are scattered through a vast emptiness of ignorance, and everything depends upon how solid the individual specks of knowledge are, and on how powerfully linked and coordinated they are with one another.

-- Thomas Sowell

there is only one you

in passing, originally uploaded by McBeth.

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.

-- Martha Graham

relentlessly melting

the springing of hope, originally uploaded by McBeth.

To take a photograph is to participate in another person's mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time's relentless melt.

-- Susan Sontag

chaff and grain

bison breath, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.

--George Eliot

Left versus Right, revisited

Several months ago I wrote about my frustration with right-handed products created with little consideration for left-handed application. I drank a can of V-8 tomato juice two days ago and, while I did, I had a sense that there was some sort of pernicious righty-lefty issue with my refreshing beverage but it wasn’t until a full day later until I figured out what it was.

Take a peek.

This first image is of the can as you might see it were you holding the can in your right hand. The opening on the can’s top in the image is similar to where it would be positioned if you had the can in your right hand all ready to take a slug.

The V-8 logo and visual imagery are positioned on the side of the can such that the consumer will more likely have visual connection with image and logo each time the can is raised to the mouth. "Oh, lookit how great I am, all drinking this delicious and nutritious V-8!" There is also a greater likelihood that anyone standing in front of or to the general left of the consumer will also get an eyeball full of logo and product placement. YOU AREN’T AWARE OF IT YET, BUT JUST LIKE YOUR FRIEND IS DOING RIGHT NOW, YOU’LL SOON WANT TO DRINK THIS BEVERAGE.

In contrast, let’s look at the left-handed V-8 drinker’s perspective:

What a left-handed person would see while raising the can to his lips is this inside section of the same can. The ingredients list. The parent company information.

Hang on, hang on, I need a moment to collect myself. Terribly exciting stuff here. What? You don’t say! I notice in the information panel and the bar code section here that the Campbell Soup Company is located in Camden, NJ! No kidding- Camden? Whyyy just the other day I was thinking about Newark, which is located in New Jersey, which is the same state that CAMDEN is in! What are the odds?!

Okay, so to be fair I will give a ^5 to Campbell Soup Company’s advertising design department for having such consideration for their left-handed consumers that they’d consider us valuable enough to let us in on the important special product details. Unless you’re standing to the right side of a right-handed V-8 drinker it’d probably take you a while to figure out that this delicious thick tomato beverage has been Pasteurized for Premium Quality, and if you ARE the right-handed V-8 consumer you’re in dangerous lack of information territory, pal. “The picture I get to see each time I tip the can to my lips is pretty and all”, you think to yourself, “but is this beverage safe to drink? How can I tell if it is a premium quality beverage?”

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s okay. You’re right, I could be overreacting, yes. But if there’s really nothing to it, then why didn’t the can ad design team line up the sipping hole with the logo, or opposite it?

Mmhmm. Thass' what I thought.

early thaw

melted gold, originally uploaded by McBeth.

The ripple of lake sounds, like intimacies breathed
twinkle by sparkling twinkle
in my ear this morning
ebb twisting itself over flow…

You above me
In front of me
behind me rocking
looking at all of me, your early morning repast
hungry shore birds, in fluttering anticipation

You, formidable glacier,
dripping dripping
drop
melting, streaming off
warm flesh melts
awakens and eddies
condenses to rejoin with me,
warm flesh, waiting all those frost-suspended months
downstream

sweating, revealing
robustly starting,
sharing
claiming, continuing,
given to wanting
giving in to being wanted.

Lazily paddling your finger oar
in circles
through reedy lowlands
to the clearing
deep and wide
on the other side
of oh yes

Lap longingly
bid me dive
unclothed and carefree
into the first fervid waters
of the new season

gymboree

I talked myself out of going to the gym Friday.
I did the same thing Saturday.

Yesterday afternoon I dressed in my fat-squishing, supposedly slimming black lycra and spandex blend gym leggings, along with the rest of the accoutrement. I had a feeling that my disappointment in myself for not having exercised the previous two days would have more of an effect if I was dressed in the official gym attire.

Before I convinced myself to get out of the house and take myself in my fat containment pants to the appropriate place, I simply HAD to wash two loads of laundry, clean the litter boxes, wash a sinkful of dishes and it was imperative that I tidy up my bedroom, but eventually it worked.
I went.

A starchy crisp power broker business looking woman approached a machine I sat my gloves and towel down on. She looked ticked off, flipping her head back and forth in a 'okay, whose stuff is this, gedditouddahere NOW' gesture. I was standing on the other side of the machine not sure how she couldn't see me right there.

Her: Are these your things?
Me: Yes.
Her: Well were you using this machine?
Me: I am, yes. Currently, in fact. Right now. Using the machine. I mean, I picked up that tipped-over bottle of disinfectant over there, but yes I am going to use the machine now.
Her: (harrumph)

Her persnickety crab appleness kinda cracked me up; her harrumphing and stomping must work for her elsewhere, but not so much with me who was thinking 'suit yourself. harrumph until the cows come home, sister'. But then she didn't leave. She stayed planted, watched me, waited. Near the end of my first set (12 reps) I guessed she thought I wasn't doing things fast enough because she harrumphed and power broker walked away. Set 2, somewhere around the 9th rep she returned to stare while she waited. Because *I* know I do three sets *I* knew I was about to take a 2 minute break before my last set. She, however, did not know this and seemed displeased when I didn't hand the machine over to her immediately. She stood and stared at me the entire last set. I wiped down the machine with disinfectant spray and as I did that I felt a horribly itchy temptation to say something biting and snotty to power broker lady. When my mouth opened I was surprised to hear 'THANK YOU. for being patient. I APPRECIATE it' come out. (hunh? how'd that slip out?)

Not 15 minutes later I approached a big weird contraption that has pulleys attached on one end to hand grips and on the other end, to the weights. I looked around, nobody there, no personal items there -- not being used, I decided. Hopped on, finished the first set and stopped to take the 2 minute break, at which time a big shouldery guy, wearing on long chains, two outlandishly large Star of David pendants that clanked together when he moved, approached.

Him: you done here?
Me: mm, nope.
Him: oh. well I was using this machine.
Me: when?
Him: just now. I was using this machine. It's okay, it's okay, no problem.
Me: I'm not sure I understand. When I first got here I saw no personal items and no people at it. I took that to mean the machine was available. Did I misinterpret?
Him: oh (heh heh), I vary my routine by doing multiple sets at different machines. I was just here, then (gesturing) I went over there, now I'm back here for my next set.
Me: Oh.
Him: So whaddaya say we trade off? You can do your next set, then I'll do mine.
Me: What?
Him: (repeats)
Me: (silent pause for puzzlement) Um, okay, I guess? I don't understand what could be so incredibly urgent that you cannot wait 5 minutes for me to finish, but I guess it's not a big deal.

We took turns, him first. He looked smug, plugging the pin into the very highest peg available between the weights. I'm sure he was lifting like 6 jillion pounds, which honestly would have been impressive but for the fact that his form was crappy and he didn't do the reps slowly enough. (because I'm such a gym rat that I can justify standing in judgment of others?) Oh, and that he was a pushy ass. That didn't help. Lots of show, little substance, I figured.

When he finished he did a big 'wow, wasn't I just fabulous hefting all that weight' whhheewwwwww exhale and didn't bother disinfecting the equipment after he'd finished. I can only assume he thought he was being helpful by resetting the pin to where I'd had it set, but he was wrong, plugged it into the '20 pounds' peg when I'd been pulling 50 pounds. I smiled and thanked him, then put the pin in the appropriate 'hey, I'm a girl but I am way stronger than THAT' peg. Jerk.

A while later I changed into my swimsuit in the locker room, puzzling over both encounters, wondering if there was some philosophical lesson I should have taken from them.
I mostly hoped that both had left the building.

I laughed out loud upon entering the pool area: both of the pushy shovey crabbertons were suited up and walking slow laps against the current in the oval shaped resistance pool - the one thing I'd set my sights on starting with. Okay, haha Universe, boy howdy, that was a good one. I get the picture. I can start somewhere else. I GET it.

The rest went alright.

Protected Witness

intimacy, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Jane's daddy hurt her terribly
He was a nervous sneaky man,
drunken and smelling of sweaty Old Spice.
So she sometimes has to relieve the pressure of
her childhood sins
by slipping away from us
sneaking off to smash her head against hard things
like bloodied brick walls
or by sticking 64 safety pins underneath the skin of her pale forearms.
See, Daddy? I am worthy. I am.
Jesus thinks so.

Estella speaks little English,
her roommate knows only 'mi casa es su casa'.
But the silent language of tears
translates easily to me over our cans of Sprite and packets of crackers
when Estella's purse tips,
and Bethany's cray pas art therapy project is discovered,
the unexplained stardusting of delicate shreds,
along with the rotting reeking remains of
dozens of snitched breakfast items.

David is unable to open up during group
His old girlfriend has just been admitted, he whispers.
And though he's been informed she is on the locked ward
He knows she will eventually be free to roam
on this side of the steel door.
He worries he might harm her
Again,
when he is absent.

Slightly stooped Michael has established
his supremacy over the night.
Overrated unnecessary sleep, ha!
He paces the halls in great loops
remarking as he passes the very beautiful girl
seated in the smoking room
who Joe DiMaggio did well to marry.
Every other lap he winks twice, alternating eyes
one lid bowing cavalierly to Joe's gal, the other to me,
as he turns the corner,
resuming his judicious unraveling of string theory
shoelace by shoelace.

Esther's hands shake absurdly
Jell-O tumbles from the cheap white plastic spoon
cruel green globs dribble down her shirt.
'This is no way to live', she keens to no one in particular.
From the nurse's station, I see dark eyes raise.
Reminders that her food tray will be reviewed
rated
assessed
counted
tabulated,
along with her vocalizations,
and sleep patterns,
and her appearance,
and her cooperation,
and the latest in expressed suicidal ideations,
Compiled into what she will eventually choose to label
'The test I could not pass'.

In the day room
Jesus just broke the D string
of his beloved battered vintage Gibson,
strumming with all his gusto.
I'd hoped to play a quiet hand of Solitaire but could not find a full deck anywhere,
so I gave up my game,
Instead, settling in to watch the presentation.
Jesus' forehead furrows into uncharacteristic grooves --
'I ain't gonna study war no more', he wails.
His swaying groupies know about faith,
Their eyes closed,

They believe.

spring cleaning

As you may already have noticed, I am cleaning house here.

I gave the old blog layout a good long try and while I did like a few things, I just couldn't get myself entirely comfortable with it. I wasn't thrilled with the single column format. I really didn't like having my links -along with everything else- wayyyy down at the bottom of the page. I'm still on the hunt for a free easy-to-use photoblog template for this phlog and would be glad to hear about your experiences using them, if applicable.

If you wouldn't mind taking a moment to leave a comment, please tell me what you do like about this new template and/or what you're not so crazy about.

namaste, over n' out.

Buddhas

batchabuddhabellies, originally uploaded by McBeth.

The Buddhas do but tell the way; it is for you to swelter at the task.

--Buddha

binding

eat your way out, originally uploaded by McBeth.

If all our happiness is bound up entirely in our personal circumstances it is difficult not to demand of life more than it has to give.

-- Bertrand Russell

refill

fillerup, originally uploaded by McBeth.

At my lemonade stand I used to give the first glass away free and charge five dollars for the second glass. The refill contained the antidote.

-- Emo Phillips

ch-ch-chaaanges

'tis I, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Getting older means coming to friendly terms with all the things I'm no longer able to do with the grace and ease of my earlier years.

I've recognized my advancing age in the laugh lines that don't stop smiling even after the rest of my face has. I believe this is not very funny, but it's true, there, and appears to be setting up house, so I can either resentfully bitch about it or I can find a way to appreciate the shift. I'm still working on the acceptance bit, but I trust that it will be the best place for me. I believe it is worth working toward.

fate of a nation

moving toward , originally uploaded by McBeth.

In the century now dawning, spirituality, visionary consciousness, and the ability to build and mend human relationships will be more important for the fate and safety of this nation than our capacity to forcefully subdue an enemy. Creating the world we want is a much more subtle but more powerful mode of operation than destroying the one we don't want.


-- Marianne Williamson

seeing clearly

melted gold, originally uploaded by McBeth.

The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.

--John Ruskin