In celebration of autumn

Our summer poetry project was a resounding success, yes? How do I measure success, you ask? Simple: I enjoyed. That poem also led me down a path of reading William Stafford's work, and it has become a tertiary mission of this blog to keep his work in front of you. With that, I think another poem is in order. This poem, slightly longer than our summer one (because we have time to sit in front of the fire and read) comments on the seasons changing around us, and as an added bonus mentions Montana, the ultimate imprimatur of good poetry. Memorize so that you know the secret Going40 code for autumn (and how cool to have two Stafford poems at your disposal. You'll be a hit at odd parties.).

Over in Montana

Winter stops by for a visit each year.
Dead leaves cluster around. They know what is
coming. They listen to some silent song.

At a bend in the Missouri, up where
it's clear, teal and mallards lower
their wings and come gliding in.

A cottonwood grove gets ready. Limbs
reach out. They touch and shiver.
These nights are going to get cold.

Stars will sharpen and glitter. They make
their strange signs in a rigid pattern
above hollow trees and burrows and houses--

The great story weaves closer and closer, millions of
touches, wide spaces lying out in the open,
huddles of brush and grass, all the little lives.

from Who Are You Really, Wanderer? (1993)

Home is where

I would be angry with Thomas Beller, except I admire him too much. He's gone and written an essay about home and our relationship to stuff (literally; I'm not just writing sloppily) that I wish I'd written, but he's done it better than I could have. And he's working on a book about the meaning of home. Dammit, I hate it when all the good jobs are taken. I take small comfort that in the span of the piece he describes his own angst about writing, finding himself in a favorite bookstore and feeling overwhelmed by "books I feel I should have written but had been too lazy and now someone else has gone ahead and done it." I so know the feeling, but from a lazier, even less productive perspective.

In "Home Is Where Your Stuff Is," Beller writes about returning to his New Orleans home after a summer away, and experiencing a kind of self-consciousness about his stuff (a word he describes, spot-on, as "that casual, almost derogatory term for those objects in your life you have invested with meaning"). Objects full of memory and collected fondly seem bothersome, even twee. When the über-familiar is rendered un-, we second-guess our choices, our priorities, even—gasp—our taste. Home may be where our stuff is, but where are we when recoil at our own detritus?

I'm experiencing a bit of this myself. As M and I negotiate how and where we spend our time, home—both the idea of it and its bricks-and-mortarness—feels a bit transigent (which I'd really like to be a word, fan as I am of intransigent, but that doesn't really make it so). Most of you know the drill: Do I have all the necessary toiletries at the other place? Did I leave my running shoes over there? Dang, I wish I had brought that book/music/work with me; is it worth driving back to get it? Where do you keep the colander/detergent/gin? Why does your bathroom smell funny?

These are high-class problems. And the chaotic fun of it all isn't something I'd trade. But. I had a couple days at my home earlier this week, just me. When I came through the door Monday afternoon, I felt a bit like I was entering a hotel room. The air was stale, all was quiet, the shades drawn. I had left everything just so, as is my way, and rather than feeling homey and comfortable my house felt like a stage set, someone else's idea of what life might be like on Bryant Avenue. As I opened the windows and watered the plants and emptied the trash, my home and I came slowly back to life, like when you rub your eyes after a brief nap, not sure where you are until familiar views comes back into focus. I reveled in the smooth gray tranquility of the walls, flopped onto the daybed to read (for ten minutes, until that nap won out), set out some wine and cheese on the patio table for a neighbor's visit. I learned very quickly how to make the space mine again, to enjoy it on my own, even while missing the one who is more frequently sharing it with me. I love where I live, the way it looks and feels, the stuff I fill it with, the people who stop by.

After three long days of work and life apart from M, I got on the train last night, the Wednesday grind of rehearsals behind me, and walked the few blocks from the Midtown station to his place. It was a beautiful evening, hours past sundown but with enough living rooms still lit to make my way pleasant and easy. I approached the back door and saw M through the window, making dinner, moving rhythmically to the Alanis Morissette tune I had heard from down the alley. I walked into a warm, good-smelling kitchen, and a bright smile and a big hug. And I was awfully glad to be home.

Book report

I just finished To Kill A Mockingbird, and feel a bit like I'm unfashionably late to a party. You've all been standing there enjoying your cocktails and witty banter, and I show up having missed most of the evening. But my outfit is so cute I don't feel shame. I just slip into place and join the conversation, laughing a bit self-consciously to fit in.

I still don't understand how 42 years came and went without this most iconic of books crossing my path. Mom always said I was the most well-read kid she knew, and I had a fantastic American lit teacher in high school. But what a thrill to read it now, eyes wide open, reveling in the language and the story. To close the book a half hour ago, and stare at it, not moving, for several minutes, happy tears streaming down my face. We love to read for just those moments. I'm still surprised each time a book knocks the wind out of me, convinced it can't happen yet again. It does, randomly, not very often, but often enough to keep reading. What book will do it next? Over to the color-coded shelves I go.

Random bits:

Something particularly satisfying about reading from a borrowed hard-bound copy circa 1961. Thanks, Jerry and Judy. Just think, that's what was on the New in Hardcover table at the bookstore in days of yore. So nice to have seasoned neighbors.

People wonder why Harper Lee hasn't written anything else. My God, why would she?

I'm grateful that Westminster Town Hall Forum has scheduled this event for me. Anyone else want to go?

In conclusion, I love Scout. And Atticus and Jem and Dill and Boo and Tom and Maudie and several other minor characters. The End.

Social networks

The book is Never Eat Alone. I must learn to network.
The bookseller doesn't have it around, but offers a slim volume of William Stafford's poems.
[A slim volume is what we call it when the book we like doesn't have many pages. Lazy is what we call the same book when we think it's crap.]
Because there are books I will always be poor. I need to network.

Mr. Stafford and I have lunch together. The conversation—at first—seems stilted.
He says So thin a life I have, scribbling dust / when I turn, trailing as if to follow / something inside the earth, something beyond / this place. If I accept what comes, / another sky is there. My serious face / bends to the ground, the dust, the lowered wings.
I say Cool.

I nibble some cheese. Mr. Stafford stares back at me.
We agree on a borrowed phrase, and lapse into companionable silence.

On baking

The cakes I bake are better than the ones you buy in stores.
And M says,
This cookie tastes like horse shit compared to one of yours.
I agree.

A useful (yes, they exist; just not here) blog

Look, kids, we're all going to learn to draw! The New York Times and James McMullen give us Line by Line, a blog with perhaps the most specific intent I've ever come across: "to rekindle the love of drawing for those readers who left it behind in the 4th grade."  Since I'm—developmentally speaking—not that much further out than 4th grade, I'm buying a sketch pad. I'll add it to the pile next to the daybed (to be completed today! Yay! Look, shiny!), and it can be one more thing I dabble at not at all well. Sketchpad down, banjo up, oh look, there's my knitting. Bye.

What would a [more] betterer life look like?

Meesa restless. Kind of a "What next?" feeling I'm having, a result of two contributing factors (handy that I can narrow things down so concisely; I don't do messy well). First, a recent small freelance project made me realize how much I love writing, but not just writing: playing with words and ideas, bouncing them off others, refining them, and making it (the job, the assignment, the project) work. The project was also perfect because it involved only those skills in my set that I love (and there are plenty of skills that I carry around begrudgingly). I have always been able to temper my ambition with a healthy portion of self-doubt and inertia, but the writing portfolio I have designed in my head is really good.

Second, being settled at home, with no pressing life issues, I'm actually finding time and energy to be creative. My nascent chamber music experience is so exciting. In real life, the music I make and manage and oversee is also fulfilling, but in a much different way. Working with volunteers (talented, lovely ones), I am producing music for their consumption and use (the church), and doing so at a level that works for them. The experience is often artistically fulfilling, but there can be a certain music-factory edge to it. In my trio, though, the three of us work and play and rehearse for each other, and expend our energy to a very common purpose, at a very equal level. [I need to spin this thread, to explain what that means to me, and I will, another time.] Suffice it to say that I find it very satisfying. The difficulty is making time and space for it in a life that also has me creating Orff ostinatos for 10-year-olds.

For many of us, doing what we love versus doing what we must is an occasional (or, constant) battle. My goal over the near-term is more love, less must. Less muss, too. And, unfortunately for my readers, a lot more fuss(-ing).

Seat of the chair

"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair." —Dorothy Parker

The editor at one of my freelance gigs loves this quote, and has a not-so-subtle way of sending it to me when I'm not meeting a deadline. I envy Parker's trove of quippy quotes ("I hate writing, I love having written" and "Writing well is the best revenge"), but like so many oft-repeated lines, they make me nervous. Partly because they're true, but ultimately because no one wants to become a cliche. At least I don't (and to the few of you are chuckling and saying, Oh but Scott, you already are: I know who you are, and I think you're mean, and I'm proud to know you).

I'm sitting on this chair, which was just completed yesterday, my father having sent me the beautiful slipcovers made to my specifications (my specifications: please, please, please make me some slipcovers). As I sit here, I look around at where I live, and realize not just how much I love it, but how I've set it up simply to have different places to perch, to read and write and think shallow thoughts. I've got the corner with this newly redone chair and a great reading lamp. In the bedroom there's a little walnut desk perfect for sitting at the computer. The round dining room table is perfect for spreading out a project, and it looks out on the porch, my ultimate favorite place to sit. And by next week my daybed will be complete, where I plan to spend hours curled up reading, ignoring deadlines and responsibilities. Of course, with all these perfect spots, you'd think I'd get more done, wouldn't you? But the piano is over there in that corner, demanding to be practiced (and my trio partners demand the same thing). The kitchen is in the opposite corner, and its demands of late have been unrelenting (Confidential to Mother Nature: Enough with the produce already. No one cares.). Then, out beyond the porch, the trails to the lake want to be run, often it seems. There are the shut-ins at the former group home to think about (that's not a mercy visit, by they way. They have a TV). And the boyfriend is around, and his little dog, too. And then there's the job; oh bother.

On the other hand, I just sat, pants in chair as required, and wrote this. Not the great American novel, but that's been done: time to roll up the shades, let the sun in, and open To Kill a Mockingbird.

For art's sake

Well, kiddles, it's September, and because it's so (and it's weirdly cooler today, too; I don't know how they do that), it's time for some lurnin'. Today's subject: the 20th-century artist Leonard Baskin. Baskin (1922-2000) was a prolific American artist, a painter, sculptor, and print-maker whose work appears in the collections of important museums and galleries. Prints he made from his etchings, lithography, and woodcuts. One of those etchings, of William Blake (1963), now hangs in my home.

Because people like me, that's why. Though it's not an easy piece to look at, is it? I first wanted to hang it in the dining room, but reason intervened: the soup course might not go down so well with that face staring back at you. And yet, I love it, and was immediately reminded of Blake's poem, Mad Song:

The wild winds weep,
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs enfold! . . .
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling beds of dawn
The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault
Of pavèd heaven,
With sorrow fraught,
My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of Night,
Make weak the eyes of Day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with the tempests play,

Like a fiend in a cloud,
With howling woe
After night I do crowd
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east
From whence comforts have increased;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.

Perfect, then, to hang it over the daybed anchoring my little reading nook, where I expect to spend much time as the weather turns cooler, nestled among quilts and books and Blake's fiendish visage reminding me to get some actual work done, or else.

Thank you, HB, for the privilege of hanging Baskin's work in my home. I'll aim to be a good steward of it.

LIKE/DISLIKE

The late summer bounty of vegetables results in many good meals—fresh tomato soup, tzatziki, gazpacho, pickled beets—filling up the refrigerator. LIKE
The refrigerator, full and evidently unhappy about it, begins an ominous ticking at 8pm last night. DISLIKE
Roy with Sears Appliance Repair is fast, courteous, and good at his job. LIKE
Replacing the control board costs just under $500. DISLIKE (duh)
A weekend of dinners, parties, and errand-running makes for a full couple of days. LIKE
The exhaustion from said outings results in a meltdown at Target. DISLIKED by all those around me
My boyfriend is smart, funny, cute, and capable of withstanding my subtle-as-a-hurricane personality. LIKE
The boyfriend witnesses the meltdown at Target (Me, repeatedly, out loud: I want a cookie. M, thought bubble above his head, silently: You're effing crazy). DISLIKE (or SHAME if you prefer)
Speaking of the boyfriend (we'll still just call him M): the world is better when we find someone so good. LIKE
We have been called lesbians for the speed at which this has developed. DIS. LIKE.
Discovering To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time (don't ask me how I missed it the first 42 years of my life; I don't know) is an unexpected pleasure. LIKE
Realizing the stack of summer reading hasn't diminished, thanks to that controlling Stieg Larsson (and yes, I gave up halfway through book three; I just quit caring), means that I've read less this summer than any other of my life. DISLIKE
Looking back on a crazy, adventure-filled summer: LOVE

Woman of Substance

As you can imagine, the Going40 stamp of approval is a coveted imprimatur, and one not easily gained. So it is with a grand sense of occasion that I commend to you a new blog, written by a dear and very smart friend (The kind of smart that actually knows stuff, not just rattles on like he does. I'm frighteningly self-aware.) Where's My Trust Fund? is a personal finance blog that will be filled with provocative ideas and concrete solutions to help all of us live well, and within our means. Its writer has the experience, compassion, and common sense to make this quite a worthwhile project. Read it, bookmark it, share it, and join the Where's My Trust Fund? movement.

Helping those who can't help themselves

So I have this friend who blogs, too (but not as well, so I don't feel threatened; and yes, I had her approve this before I added that bit). Her blog is pretty, and has nice pictures. Let's say it's about shuffleboard. Every time she sees a new shuffleboard, um, complex, she posts about it. Or if she learns a new set of shuffleboard rules, she writes something about those. She's developed quite a following, and it's a great way for her to be creative and to share her narrow expertise with others. And maybe she's not a she anyway. Maybe she's a guy. I digress, but confidentiality is very important to my work here. She's now faced with a dilemma: her blog is quite subject-specific (shuffleboard, remember?) but in the meantime her life is going in a dramatically different direction. For instance, let's say she has discovered that a mutant Barbie doll has been growing out of her pelvis for some time and it is now showing, so she's going to live in Transylvania for the foreseeable future, making a living selling soap (and frankly, that's not that far off the mark). Anyhoo. Her (and really, she kind of looks like a guy) question to me this weekend: can she just keep blogging about shuffleboard, not saying anything about the Barbie/Transylvania angle, or will her readers know something's up by the tone of her posts? And if she does acknowledge this major life change, how does she do so artfully and gracefully in a blog that has only been about shuffleboard (post after relentless post)? I thought, since my readers are way smarter than her readers (who are, I assume, octogenarians and their fetishists in Naples), we could offer up some advice as she faces this new chapter. Dear Readers, droplets of wisdom from your collective sweaty brow?

An ordered existence

Don't judge me. Or do, makes no nevermind. As I unpacked books on to my beautifully rebuilt shelves, I realized a couple things. First, someone has my copy of David Rhodes' Driftless, and it is driving me crazy. The best book I've read in five years can't simply be gone. Give it back. I need to make M read it. As a test. Second, I realize how many books I love I simply don't own. I have utilized the library too damn much. But my third, greatest finding is this: it makes complete sense to me to arrange books by color. Before you all go running for your copy of The Care and Feeding of Books: Rules and Regulations for an Uptight World, hear me out. I have spent a lot of time with books over my 42 years (31 years if you go by my brother's aging algorithms); I have spent years working with them professionally, designing, editing and proofreading them. And I know this: I remember books by what they look like. I know that the cover of America America (Ethan Canin) is as pastoral as its title suggests (and completely anachronistic, given the sordid story contained therein). I remember that the swirling water on Swimming in a Monsoon Sea (Shyam Selvadurai) helped me overcome my revulsion of teal, and that the crisp white volume of We Regret to Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Children (Philip Gourevitch) is a devastatingly effective setup for the genocidal horrors found within its pages.

So, with some exceptions (knitting books are segregated and stacked together because they're mostly ugly; cookbooks have their own shelves closer to the kitchen), my books are arranged not by author, subject matter, or genre. Black gives way to grey, and white has a shelf of its own. In the corner, red begins the march down the rainbow (which totally doesn't look gay when it's books, bytheby). I'm surprised I don't have more orange books, and I'd like to suggest that cover designers use blue only as a last resort; my shelves can't handle more indigo. My little library behind the piano looks good, and it makes me happy. But even better? I can name that title in one color, and hand it over to you to read and love. Just give it back when you're finished.

Making a difference

Hullo. That's how I sound when I talk right now because I have a bad cohd. I'd also like to mention that I have two legitimate blog posts in process, but like the rest of you was demoralized beyond lethargy by the weather phenomenomenom of recent days. That is, the sucky, moist, hegemony-producing humidity of colonialism (because my geography is just sketchy enough to assume that all the Belgian and Dutch plundering happened along the equator). Still, I come by to say hullo because I realized a few minutes ago how much the world needs me: an Edina mom just interrupted her pedicure at Spalon to make her husband text me and tell me to blog already. That, my friends, is affirmation far greater than a Nobel, a Pulitzer, or a Bloggie. So hullo.

I mentioned a moment ago that I am on my deathbed. And yet, did a Door County cherry crumble just come out of the oven? It did indeed. Did I apply a coat of lemon oil to the beautiful walnut credenza in my dining room? I did that, too (Though actually, said dining room is more of a group therapy room right now. I don't have a dining room table, so the blue Eames chairs just sit staring at each other in a circle, waiting for folks to stop by and express their feelings). After a day of sniveling and gasping for breath and blowing my nose, I was revived this afternoon by a delivery of steaming hot delicious homemade chicken soup. By someone. Whose name may or may not begin with M. And who may or may not be occupying, of late, a bit some a lot of time otherwise spent blogging. So, for all of you who remember those early moments in your own lives when you cheerfully abandoned friendships for a bit while more interesting things percolated along, let me assure you Going40 is just such a friend. Let me also add that if you had bothered to memorize the summer poem from a couple weeks ago, your lives would also be good. Now has come, an easy time. I let it roll . . . . Indeed.

Yours in sickness, health, and so long as there's nothing more exciting around,

Me

News not fit to print

What's been happening with me? Nothing much at all. Which is a big lie, but a personal blog is hardly the place for self-disclosure. No, today I thought we'd catch up on the news. Reading the newspaper of record on the internets this morning,* I came across this gem. For those of you unable to make the link work (Hi, mom), I'll sum up: girls getting the breastses earlier. Like, at age seven and eight. That girls are going through puberty younger has been much discussed for years, but this new, er, development is cause for alarm. Researchers fear that increased hormone exposure from early puberty could lead to higher cancer rates. More immediately, the pscyhosocial impacts are very real: young girls are not women, even if their bodies indicate otherwise. And men are pigs.***

Fine. I leave it to all of you caring, thoughtful people to discuss the issue and its many ramifications. Out of earshot of me. The real value of this article, from my perspective, is finding new material to add to my list of words banned from the Going40 lexicon:****

1. menstruation
2. fat deposits
3. budding
4. sprouting

Parsing the news so you don't have to, I remain your humble, faithful servant.
_________________
*And, by the way, I hope you're all with me that it's really no longer necessary to touch newsprint. I know you think you're cool with the blue plastic bag outside your door on Sunday mornings, and that sitting in your Eames rocker in striped pajama pants, soy cap in hand, somehow mitigates the fact that your studied casualnesss is actually pretension and we can't see it oozing out of your loft walls. But it doesn't, and we can.**

**We're trying out footnotes instead of the usual long parenthetical (because even I sometimes lose my train of thought during the meandering, and then I have to put my finger on the screen where the sentence was interrupted so that I can find my way back to the main point. If there is one.) asides. It worked for David Foster Wallace. Until he died.

***I think you'll agree, after reading the short article, that my ability to so succinctly summarize years of complicated research may be my most enduring legacy.

****A list that, when complete, is going to make a rockin' picture dictionary.

In celebration of summer

Yes, I've been away. Like great world leaders of generations past, I took to my western ranch for a working vacation. By working, I mean gin. Some time in the Montana mountains was evidently just what I needed to come back feeling lazier than ever. I did, however, make a recess appointment to the Going40 cabinet. Ann W, frequent commenter and renowned teacher of lit'rature, is our new Poetry Curator-in-Residence. I asked her to begin her term by sharing a poem that we can all memorize together, one that encapsulates this particular time of year, when summer is on the wane but we're not quite ready to think of autumn. Think of it as Going40 secret code: you're at a party; you recite a line from the poem out loud, as you're loading down your plate with macaroons. From across the room, someone you've never seen before echoes the line. You both pause and smile, and then, from down the street, you hear the stanza completed by the disembodied voice of a teenager going by on her longboard. Nirvana. So here, a poem by William Stafford:

Why I am Happy

Now has come, an easy time. I let it
roll. There is a lake somewhere
so blue and far nobody owns it.
A wind comes by and a willow listens
gracefully.

I hear all this, every summer. I laugh
and cry for every turn of the world,
its terribly cold, innocent spin.
That lake stays blue and free; it goes
on and on.

And I know where it is.

My zucchini is gay

First, the plant did produce, early and impressively. Since then? Nothing. Oh yeah, lots of show: big flowers that bloom, fall off, die. And still more blooms that never open, wither, fall off, die. Last night Farmer John explained the magic of pollination and how it ain't happening. It seems that the big showy male blooms are getting no attention, and that perhaps the female blooms are not putting out like they could. Something like that. How did I end up with the big gorgeous zucchini a couple weeks ago? Evidently a hetero worker bee stopped by earlier this summer so that there could be at least one offspring, but I would hazard a guess that it sensed the sexual ambiguity on my porch and told its friends not to bother. To sum up: there has been, lately, no sex on my porch. If I want more zucchini, I am faced with two choices, both fraught with moral and ethical tangles:

1. Adoption (farmer's market is this Sunday, after all). But I can't know where the vegetables (because make no mistake, that is what we're talking about) came from, how they were raised, or whether they'll be any good as they get older. Sure, it mostly worked for my parents, though Steve works in Hollywood, Jennifer constantly asked strangers for gum, and Gretchen kept several full-sized, fully-dressed mannequins in her room for years. The more I think about it, the more it seems like a risky move.
2. Artificial insemination. Again, so many unknowns. Legend has it that the turkey baster is the at-home method of choice, but doesn't that seem like wearing a prom dress to a picnic? I suppose I could go out with tweezers and grab some pollen, but let's face it: I don't know what goes where. Never have, don't need to learn now. 

It is possible—though I don't like saying it out loud—that this may be a summer with no more zucchini.

Those walls won't paint themselves

That's a famous line, right? No? Anyway, here's the thing: they do. Well, kind of. Ferinstance, yesterday I get home from a grueling day at the office [hahahahahahaha] and Foster Dad has just finished rolling the wall of the living room. Big room now 40% complete! And, by the way, what do we call that room which is essentially entryhallkitchenlivingroomdiningroommusicroomreadingnook all in one? I refuse to call it a great room because I do not live in a town ending in Grove. Bedroom is easy. Master bath, got it. Half-bath (which I prefer to the ladies-who-lunch-like powder room). Laundry room, closets, porch. I have no idea why I just gave you a virtual word tour, but there you have it. The bulk of my space is unnameable.

I digress. Good friends (and good doesn't describe it: more like saintly) Muffi and Tim came over late last evening for the umpteenth time and did more of the nasty hard painting, and I did manage to get the third and final coat of paint on the Stunning Backsplash, but then I had to putter around looking useful and busy while they toiled. Seriously, I wiped the counters down about three times. I may be living in piles-of-boxes squalor, but it's c.l.e.a.n.

We are fast approaching the time when I have some critical decorating decisions to make. I will pretend to involve you and then just do what I already have planned in my head (though I will say Foster Mom made such a good suggestion last night that I have completely rethought the half-bath; you'll see the results soon in Dwell, I'm quite certain).

Onward, mostly-agnostic soldiers.

Peace

Andre Previn's Trio for Oboe, Bassoon, and Piano reminds me a lot of America at the time it was written in the late twentieth century: full of opposing ideas, unsettled, unable to focus on a common goal, but lurching forward (in a beautiful, well-written way; I meant no disrespect, Mr. Previn) with a semblance of progress. Previn is particularly savvy using American idioms while maintaining his own distinct compositional voice, particularly in the jazz-inspired final movement. But in the midst of the thorny, difficult music, buried in the middle movement is this moment*: nine measures of simple, pure bliss.

You've all had those moments in music. Snippets of a piece, maybe even a whole song, that you want to hear over and over, that somehow transport you. I can think of dozens of them immediately, a few measures of Strauss' Morgen, the soloist's first entrance in Bach's cantata, Ich habe genug, or the climactic moment in Ravel's Sonatine. There are certainly as many such moments in jazz or pop music, too. When Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven was first released (you know, the one about his dead kid)? Couldn't stop playing it. Or even worse (I hate true confessions time): when I was in high school, I had a momentary lapse that resulted in an Amy Grant phase. I honestly don't remember the song, but know only that I played about 45 seconds of it over. and over. and over. I understand now that I was simply discovering the seductive power of suspended fourths, but still. I was smitten.

I thought of those measures in the Previn on my iPodless run early this morning (has anyone seen my earbuds, btw?), as I exited under the little bridge connecting Isles to Calhoun. If I had the little digital recorder I covet, I'd put up a sound file of them right here, and you'd be impressed with the value-added blog you're reading. But anyway, Lake Calhoun comes suddenly into view, and it's not a momentous scene, but it's calm and expansive and inviting, and it reminded me, almost viscerally, of those moments in music that hook us. I actually felt propelled around the lake by that single thought. Total peace. But I also get that my favorite measures, that inspiring moment, might do nothing for you, and that you, strangely, would be stoic and unmoved when faced with my Amy Grant fantasy. And I'd gamely listen to the minute or so of that song by Lady Gaga you love and not get it either (though not if it's Paparazzi because I totally love that). Music is cool that way, no?

*At rehearsal last night we joked that after those nine measures, which happily belong to the piano alone, the oboe and bassoon join me and we proceed to immediately ruin it. And it's true: it's almost as if Previn is embarrassed that he wrote such a simple, unadulerated lick. To rehearse the thorny stuff, we always had me start with the magic measures, just so we could indulge in them.

P.S. The Poulenc Trio's excellent recording includes the Previn, and some other great pieces my trio is also rehearsing.

A good week for some favorite things

It's been awhile, no? We'll avoid the Big Favorites: family, friends, my home (I swear I'm in danger of losing my cynical chops—this simply can't continue). But, this adventure of a week has provided more than a few moments of pleasure in small, even mundane things; some old, some new, some rediscovered. And my new home is, going. to. be. awesome. You'll see, because you'll come to the housewarming party later this summer.

Anyway, this week I loved (and make your own list, and post it because then we can all copy each other and have tons of favorite things and then there can be world peace because we're all so busy loving favorite things that we'll forget that people can suck):

1. Murphy's Oil Soap
2. Black v-neck t-shirts
3. Brown rice
4. The last half of a run (conversely, the first half of most runs this week made me want to just give up and be that guy that Oprah has to cut the wall out to move on to a flatbed truck to be on the show)
5. Maple ice cream (even after all that)
6. 600-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets (I am a pampered gay. And a thrifty one, as they were ridiculously discounted at The Rack, so don't give me grief.)
7. Orange Marimekko
8. Model L, Serial # 376263, still and always (and because my biographers will need the information, the first hours back at my beloved piano I played Bach's second Partita, Andre Previn's Trio (because I have trio rehearsal Sunday night and yikes), and David Evan Thomas' "Heard on the Lake" from his Summer Night suite)
9. Basil still warm from the sun
10. Sherwin-Williams' Gray Clouds (in an eggshell finish, looks like hand-rubbed wax)

Testing

I'm practicing typing on an iPad. I have the original iPhone (iPhone Classic is what we prefer), and am trying to decide if I want to upgrade to the 4g iPhone or keep my museum-quality phone and get an iPad instead. I can't afford both (actually I can afford neither), but when I do decide to upgrade, it is only the comfort and convenience of you, my loyal readers, that matters most to me. Thoughts? Opinions? Preferences? Typing this only took a couple minutes. Certainly faster than on my phone, but slower than my MacBook.

Domestic disturbance

It's not as though I can't cook. People generally like the food I prepare. More importantly, I feel comfortable in the kitchen: I can improvise, my technique is such that I rarely panic, I don't need to follow a recipe slavishly, and preparing good food well is enjoyable to me. Until tonight.

If you'd like to play along, prepare thusly: leave your house right now (seriously, get up and transfer to your mobile device); you can grab some clean underwear but that's about it. Next, have a toddler go into the kitchen and really mess stuff up. Switch the recipe drawer for the liquor cabinet. Put the plastic wrap where the refrigerator warranty stuff used to be, and throw out the wooden spoons altogether. Also, randomly pack up and haul away about half the kitchen equipment. Seriously: random. No rhyme nor reason to it—just get rid of some shit. If you want to simulate a few months away from cooking in your own kitchen (or at all), take a swig of liquid Vicodin. What, you don't have any? I have a big bottle left over from surgery, and I'm officially house-poor. Anyhoo.

Now you're ready to play. Let's make ice cream, shall we? We've had a hankering for frozen maple custard all day (even though we've never really heard of it and just picked it out of the ether). Besides, we got the Krups ice cream maker in the Settlement of the Unpleasantness, so best use it. Because we can't seem to remember how to operate this stove, let's just start right in. The maple syrup scorches very quickly, as we learn with about .000003 seconds to spare. We're also reminded—again in the nick of time—that when we pour the heavy cream into the syrup pan, chemistry happens. Those two are having what Foster Mom romantically calls redhotmonkeylovesex. We also note (this time too late) that we don't seem to have an oven mitt anymore, the handle of the pan is sehr hot, and the kitchen towel on the counter is Brawny.

A good step to do ahead of time would have been to whisk the eggs so that we're ready to pour the hot maple cream over them in a thin steady stream, whisking constantly. WE DON'T HAVE A WHISK??? We use a plastic fork, and get decent results. The custard is smooth and ready to pass through a strainer into a large bowl. You think we don't have a strainer? Wrong; we totally have one, and it's right there. We just don't have a large bowl. Except the one the the hot custard is already in. So we'll pour custard back in the pan and wash the one bowl we seem to have (and can I just say that I have, or have had, every piece of kitchen equipment known to humankind? I've got egg cups shaped like chickens for pete's sake). The custard is actually quite velvety and beautiful and smells like French toast.

Because we must chill the custard before freezing in the machine, we'll create an ice bath in the sink. We'd love just to fill the sink with cold water, but our sink only produces hot water (and someone else was supposed to get that fixed. Love you!). Instead we go fill a plastic tub (okay, the garbage can from the half bath) with cold water from the bathtub. We add ice, throw the bowl in, and make ourselves a gin and tonic (in that we wave the tonic bottle over the tumbler as a thurifer might cense the high altar).

All that remains is to freeze according to manufacturer's directions. Super easy, until we realize that in the past, someone else always did this step, and we have no idea how the three pieces of the ice cream maker fit onto the base. We, of course, have no idea where the manual for this machine might be, and we don't have that kind of time anyway. If nothing else, this affords us the opportunity to spill some custard on the counter and wipe it up with our tongue. Dang it's good. Really good. It's possible I can still cook, even while insane.

P.S. Am I aware that this photo is ridiculous? Yes, I am, and actually have another that's quite lovely. But how often do we get to combine halogen bulbs and carnival glass to look like some kind of dessert-oriented spaceship?

Initial observations

Independent living is hard!


Because I can't imagine what it must be like for those of you who must suffer on the sidelines without knowing every detail of my life, a review of Day One of the Independent Living Experiment:

The day dawned hot and humid (I'm still gunning for the Bulwer-Lytton Hall of Fame); I got up at about 5:30am, showered, loaded the car, stopped at Jackson's for coffee, and got HOME at about 7am. It was a soft landing, no outrageous emotion, and the place was clean and bright and ready (which made for a really gratifying homecoming). A friend showed up a few minutes later with McDonald's breakfast, Chicago mix popcorn (a vat of it), and 3 packs of Kowalski's iced ginger cookies (it was not a healthy eating day), and he started in washing windows because he wanted to. I mostly puttered from project to project not getting huge amounts of anything done. Another friend came over with an armful of bright orange Gerbera daisies, scrubbed the top of the kitchen cupboards (for hours, literally), changed my HVAC filter, and scrubbed down the laundry room. Yet another friend (sense a theme?) showed up with lunch, and proceeded to spend about six hours painting all the trim in both bathrooms. McDonald's Breakfast Friend (he will love his new nickname) painted two coats on the kitchen backsplash and it is so fricking stunning (you will need to come see it for yourself; I am the king of clever). I cleaned the closet really well and started organizing and unpacking it. I have so much room to put everything just so: a drawer for lightweight dress socks, a drawer for athletic socks, a drawer for wool socks. That sort of thing. When everyone left at about 6pm (which made me wonder if they were all gathering for cocktail hour offsite, to debrief and pat each other on the back for getting away from the headache that is me), it was very. quiet. I freaked out for a few minutes, not sure what to do. Dead silent. Freaky silent, actually. So I ate the dinner brought to me, and went for a nice walk around Lake of the Isles. When I got home later that evening, a good friend was sitting on my porch. We poured some champagne, and he talked and asked questions in a gentle way to get me crying a bit, and then we had a very helpful (I'm not kidding) ceremony. He had brought over sandalwood incense, and we walked around each room, smudging all the corners, and he had me state what I was grateful for, and what my intentions were, and we both recognized the complete hocus-pocus absurdity of it at the same time recognizing the very real help symbolic gestures are in mimicking the work and intent behind what we want our lives to be. It was the best hour of the week. We sat out on the porch until late, and I showered, went to bed and slept like a baby. Days 2-4 have proven to be less eventful, but productive and healthy and good. I'm glad to be home.

Habitat for Humanity

where

Habitat = Midtown Lofts

and

Humanity = Me

The migration begins Friday morning, at the start of a holiday weekend, when everyone either has plans, is out of town, or blowing off their hands with firecrackers. I will be more than content to spend the weekend on my much-anticipated projects: cleaning, painting (every. square. inch), rearranging. If, in the spirit of service (and really, the spirit of America), you have an hour or two to paint a small square, wipe down a counter, or sit and talk to me while I do that, consider yourself invited. Just think, if all my loyal blog readers lent a hand, how long would it take me to paint the entire space? Yeah, a long time.

But seriously, so many of you have asked what you can do to help; here it is. If you'd like to hang out for a bit, and help with a project or three, I'd love to see you. I can promise only this: you won't have to lug boxes, and that when the place is all put together, we'll have a hell of a housewarming party. Shoot me an email (scott.rohr@gmail.com) if you'd like to come by, but know that you are welcome anytime over the coming weeks, and not just to work. I can't wait to welcome you to my home.

Skills test

As you know, I have been training to live independently for several months and have learned many new skills. A few of note:

1. I have learned how to stay up way past a normal human's bedtime. In the olden days, I would turn in around 10:30, maybe read until 11:00. Child's play. Now? The foster parents have taught me that life (or their version of it) doesn't really begin until 10:00, and the day really gets going about midnight. This makes the getting up at 6:15am to go for a walk kind of tough, but I've done it, almost every day. In other words, I'm seriously behind on sleep.

2. Thanks to Foster Mom's specific and unwavering instructions, I can now make perfect tea:

a. Bring cold water to a boil. For some kinds of tea, we let it sit for a minute after boiling.
b. Add six scoopies of the good loose tea (all measurements are for the big white pot; other measurements become necessary for the blue and red pots).
c. Pour the water over the loose tea; set the timer for four minutes (five if it's the tea that looks like dried eels).
d. Remove the tea holder thingy from the pot; add four sugar cubes and a quarter cup of 2% milk.
e. Stir with a large chopstick, and pour.

3. Alternatively, I have observed that Diet Coke is an appropriate beverage for any time of day or night or activity. I have declined to participate in this rite (and, by the by, completely gave up drinking soda three months ago).

4. I am powerless in the face of Rustica bittersweet chocolate cookies. While I had always suspected this, the valupacks that enter the group home are dangerous to me. The solution seems to be storing them in the foster parents' bedroom, which I don't enter unless invited so as not to stumble upon the redhotmonkeylovesex.

5. How Was Your Day is the most important activity a family can do together, and every family needs to follow the custom. Every day, no exceptions. The rules are easy: when all the inhabitants are in soft clothes at the end of the busy day, someone asks "How was your day?" And then someone else answers, and conversation ensues.

6. If you have a dirty dish that needs to go in the dishwasher, you should just leave it on the counter, because you'll likely put it in the dishwasher incorrectly. This is a rule I've understood for many years, and am unsure how to apply to an independent living situation.

7. Canadian design shows are far superior to Lower American design shows. In particular, Sarah's House is must-see TV.

8. Friends and neighbors dropping by to chat make life civilized and meaningful. So do good foster parents, and I've had the best.

A bundle of nerves

I took some time, as some of you have noted, to let my post about, and my memories of Viggo have some room to breathe. And during that time I have been grateful for your kind responses and the ways in which you have reached out to me. These past days have been less about blog as narrative arc and more about blog as community, and I am thankful for those who have surrounded me. Everyone should have that.

When we describe someone as "a bundle of nerves," we aren't being complimentary, are we? Because lordhavemercy that is me this week. My inability to sit still borders on the comical. I do some work, I play the piano, I walk, I run, I waste time on the computer, I daydream. Rinse and repeat. I am filled with equal parts excitement and dread, the upcoming move this weekend stirring in me thoughts about finality and change (thoughts that don't always manage to make sense to me, or represent any sort of cogent story). Even writing a short blog post feels like an impossible task: quick grab some random words out of the ether before they escape! Make sense of them later.

Breathe.

Is change always this rough? If you're a hyper-active guy with mild OCD and a fair amount of anxiety, I suppose. If you've imbued this weekend (or had it imbued for you by circumstance) by Much Portent and Meaning, then certainly. Stick with me: this too shall pass.

A Remembrance

It is not a joke, or at least not a funny one, when I say that on Sunday of That Week I started a new job, on Tuesday my relationship ended, and on Thursday my dog died. But I can't help but laugh nervously when I recount it, because it's so completely absurd. I have processed (ugh, aren't we so, so, so tired of that word) a lot since then, but I have held a bit at bay. And I know I will cry the entire time I'm writing this, because I already am. It's stupid, I suppose, to force myself to do this, but it's one of the things I told myself I had to accomplish before I could move back to Midtown Lofts. I can't make a new home there until I've said goodbye to what won't be there when I return.

This is Viggo. This is our baby, we'd say. We were a typical childless, indulgent, 21st-century couple when it came to our dog. We spoiled him and talked to him, and talked about him, and took pictures of him, and bought him toys we knew he'd destroy in minutes. We went on long walks and runs with him, and let him offleash to chase bunnies on the greenway and fish at the lake (he could catch neither). He was exuberant and exasperating. He would sit by the side of the bed, his whines turning to full-fledged cries until I would kick up the duvet with my leg and he would hop onto the mattress, curl up and spend the night under the covers, his nose sticking out the foot of the bed only if it was a really warm night. He had no interest in getting up in the morning, and after we took him outside and he ate his breakfast, he was ready to go back under the covers for a couple more hours. After that he was a holy terror for the rest of the day.

Viggo was a very good dog. And he could be a very bad dog (see Indulgent Owners). He was the most beautiful Vizsla anyone had ever seen. He sat absolutely still—like a statue—on the front porch while people walked by, almost all of them commenting on his regal bearing. He howled on the first Wednesday of every month, at 1pm, as the tornado sirens were tested. Because he wasn't much of a howler, his attempts often ended in a cough, and he'd stare at me like it was my fault. Eric enjoyed tying our kitchen towels under his chin like a kerchief, and Viggo became the Polish grandmother we never had. Viggo enjoyed this not at all.

These pictures of him are the first I've looked at since he died, and seeing them is still almost more than I can bear. It will be a while before I can look at the many dozens hundreds of others I have. I can't write about the last few days and weeks of his life, except to say that he was a stunningly active, healthy six-year-old dog and he should still be here with me. His chin should be resting on my arm while I'm typing, and he should be grunting in annoyance while I play with his ears.

As much as I adored Viggo, I won't have another dog for a long time. My heart isn't big enough for another dog, because I still love Viggo so. I sometimes wonder if he knew that life was about to get very complicated, and bowed out gracefully, sparing us the one division of property that would have been impossible. That, besides making me sob uncontrollably (aren't you glad this isn't a video blog?) is also crazy-dog-person talk.

I am grateful for the years I had with my little family, and I miss it more than you can know. Hug your partner, and hug your kids, and hug your dog. There is no cynicism here, nor a clever ending. There is only love.

Self-imposed blockage

Sometimes blog posts are kind of like sneezes: I can feel them coming on, and when they have to happen, out they come. On the other hand, because I compose a post almost entirely in my head before typing, I spend a lot of time with a particular post, sometimes a few days if it's going to be a particularly self-gazing-at-navel one. So I'm grateful both to Foster Mom and my recent trip to Chicago to taking some pressure off. I've got a big 'un brewing, and it's been tough to think about, much less write about, so I've been holding breath, forcing myself not to sneeze. Crazy, I know, because supposedly this blogging gig is voluntary, but I also know this has to happen so that I can Move On With Purpose and Hopefulness. In the meantime, go read Tom Rachman's The Imperfectionists, because it's a terrific summer read. I'll be back shortly, with what I hope is one last maudlin bit of treacle so we can all get on with our lives (oh, not to worry, I'll still be right here forever; we have a lot of going forty left to do, much of which I'm sure will be completely embarrassing to me, and therefore wildly entertaining to you).

Field Notes from the Group Home

I am grateful to Foster Mom for many things, but especially for this, a biography, as it were, of the last few months. With this missive I'd consider us all caught up, ready to move forward. Thanks, DF.

I used to be a sous-blogger, but I had to take a break from the unrelenting demands of that job. Now here I am, once again finding myself with some things to say.

I guess I should get that first week in February out of the way. It started so well on Sunday--the new job was a perfect fit and his debut was (the church version of) a triumph. But then Monday we spent a couple hours . . . hmm . . . discussing our ideas about emotional intelligence, affect regulation, and self-care. (Also timing just how long a person can sob before they have to stop to breathe. I guess I'm a scientist at heart.) Tuesday afternoon Phil moved huge armloads of mess out of our second bedroom, inflated an airbed, and made a little sleeping nest with nice cotton sheets and a pair of down comforters. Tuesday night Scott slept here. Wednesday Viggo was diagnosed with leukemia. Thursday Viggo died. It was so terrible. And so we began this experiment. 

*************

What should we call it? Maybe we're a commune. Or is it more like foster care? Roommates? Or maybe it's assisted living, and we've just installed a PCA to help the old people stay out of a nursing home. Or maybe we're a group home, and our focus is independent living skills. In the first couple weeks we had several "visitors." They all came by with the veneer of a polite social agenda, but I could tell by their clipboards and their questions that we were in the middle of a suitability home study. Electricity? Running water? Pleasing display of accessories in the public spaces? Enough ice cream in the freezer? Wireless access to the cable modem plus expanded channel package? Date of last piano tuning?

The bar is higher when the vulnerable newcomer knows how to use the phone and could call child protection on his own behalf.

*************

After a couple weeks we upgraded from the airbed to a real mattress. That meant moving lots and lots of stuff to make room for the bed. We were also watching the very inspirational "Hoarders" TV show at the time, and were completely motivated to get rid of stuff. We moved some furniture around and had a really full carload for Value Village. Mostly we got rid of books and clothes. We played several rounds of "Is This Cute?" and I tried to be ruthless about not hanging onto the Nos. I did have to do a little workshop for the foster child focused on specific features of black slacks, and how no two pairs meet exactly the same needs.

We learned very quickly that we're well-matched in our ideas about the importance of making your bed every day.

**************

The group home has only one bathroom. Our morning schedules are quite different. However, a naked post-shower sprint from the bathroom to the bedroom is completely visible in the other bedroom. All residents call out "Eyes Closed Time" as they traverse the pass, and "Eyes Open Time" once they're in their spot. Everyone seems quite motivated to participate with the letter and the spirit of this plan, and we've had no breech in protocol.

We've comingled our various products, and I'm completely accustomed now to the enormous cobalt blue container of shaving goo on the rim of the sink. I think it might be a lifetime supply.

***************

For the census, we were three, and discussed at length which category fit us best. I think we went with "unmarried adults living together."

**************

Scott has been warned for several years that he needed to have his freakishly large tonsils taken out. We had a family meeting and agreed that it was time to commit and get it done, (because his life was in such a shambles, he'd barely notice one more crappy thing) so he found a very cute ENT guy and went under the knife on April 7. The tonsils were even worse than the surgeon had anticipated, which seemed to make Scott very proud. Phil and Jacob went along as his next of kin. The official record for April 2010 will be written by me, because he has very little actual memory of that month. The intensity and relentlessness and grip of post-op pain is at least as bad as you've heard. For two weeks he mostly laid in bed and dribbled cherry-flavored liquid opiods down his throat every two hours. Early on he learned to set the timer on his phone and wake himself up for a scheduled dose, because trying to catch up with the pain is nothing but preventable suffering.

The first couple days he could only tolerate broth and apple juice in tiny amounts. He slept a lot, and we had to nudge him to stay hydrated. He was very interested in advancing to ice cream, but learned the hard way that he'd over-estimated his tolerance. He had a visit from a nice friend scheduled, so I left him alone for a few minutes. Two minutes before MK arrived he disgorged Roxicet-tinged Dairy Queen shake in a wide distribution throughout the upstairs. In retrospect, we should have spent more time getting him oriented to our "Commit to the Green Bowl" approach that has served us so well. MK found what she needed and had everything cleaned up by the time I got home a half hour later. How great is that? And for the sake of telling the whole truth, the trail from this bed to the bathroom benefitted from two passes of the Big Green Cleaning Machine a few days later. For a couple weeks we didn't leave him alone. Pink sherbet and real fruit popsicles were his main meal most days.

There were some other effluvial details that are still classified. We will evaluate transcript and photo requests on a need-to-know basis. He did gradually advance to pureed cauliflower soup, but declined almost all baby food. He lost 17# in three weeks, because that's what happens when even water hurts. He turned a corner at about one month post-op, and is almost normal now, though he says singing is still not a sure thing. I think there is a very slight difference in his speaking voice.

***************

He's away from home a lot, but quickly adapted to our ways. Coming home always means putting on soft clothes, and then we do How Was Your Day? We have sensible family dinners and have gotten him hooked on a couple favorite TV shows. We've instituted a rationing plan for Rustica bittersweet chocolate cookies, and some days we stick to it.

He's done quite a bit of gardening, and now it looks like someone lives here. We have a comprehensive anti-bunny program in place, because it didn't work for him to just sit on the front porch and give them the evil eye.

Scott is very attentive to letting us know when he's going to be returning home. At first I thought he just had nice roommate manners. But later I realized he believes that whenever he's gone, the foster parents jump into bed and have redhotmonkeylovesex. This is a source of permanent amusement, and indicates a significant deficit in his reality testing.

***************

A couple weeks ago he went out with a new friend and got home at 11:50, full of stories. The next night he was headed out again and I said, "See you at midnight!" (because what could be funnier than a fake curfew for a 42-year-old?). He objected and said he'd been home 10 minutes early, so he should get 10 extra minutes the next night. Because at that point I was just making shit up, I said, "No carryover minutes in this plan." And he was home before midnight.

****************

On several occasions we've had conversations that explore the differences in 

1.  feeling emotion and expressing it in a way that isn't harmful to self or others (good)

2.  denying or stuffing feelings, keeping secrets, telling lies (bad)

3.  wallowing (bad)

Though he may not exactly know that.

We've also been practicing neutral face. You could probably do very well playing poker against him, because he's got no poker face. None whatsoever.

***************

An hour after he left for Chicago last weekend we had this text message exchange:

Scott:   Hope your week isn't too boring. Do NOT have sex on my bed just to "change it up."

Me: Uh oh.

Scott: Get out of my room!!!!!!!

************

More than anything, it's been like living in the dorm. Easy and fun. And now it's winding down. I told somebody yesterday that he's leaving before I need him to, and isn't that a good way to start the next chapter?

Hello for real

I can't believe you allowed yesterday's indulgent post to sneak past. I'm fine, and apologize for the lazy blip.

Hello from Chicago, a city I'm quite certain I was meant to live in someday (not soon; worry not, locals). I am on retreat, not from life, but for work. After a whirlwind start at work a few months ago, I'm taking some time to plan ahead for the upcoming program year. It feels like a great luxury, and I'll be much better at my job as a result. That I've been accompanied here by another musician almost as talented as me is a great help and comfort.

What should you know? I'm chomping at the bit to try independent living, even as I mourn the loss of the comfort and security that the group home has provided (ugh, let's rewrite that sentence). I'm trying to extend runs enough that I finish the Minnesota Half Marathon in August with something resembling my dignity intact. Some of my planned travel has been pared down, both with and without my input, which makes me look forward to certain trips even more. Also, to all you venture capitalists, I have a great idea for a promising invention: the customer visualizes fabric in his mind, and your machine/doohickey/thingamajig spits it out exactly as imagined. Brilliant!

We'll resume some steps in the Glorious Ascent after my return. In the meantime, we enjoy Ms. Earth's first sputtering attempts at summer. She is evidently new at this, and doesn't quite understand how it works.

Relapse

Last time I stood at this spot, I was 34 and newly—madly—in love.
Today I'm 42 and newly single. Up, down, forward, backward, pause.
I see a sign for pie.

The Glorious Ascent: Mandate #5

In many ways the mandate marking the halfway point of the Ascent is more like a peak. Most of the other gentle suggestions are in service to:

Good Housekeeping.

Not the struggling-to-be-relevant-shelter-magazine-before-shelter-magazines-existed-fourteen-deep-on-the-newsstand kind of Housekeeping. No, I'm talking about home: finding one, making one, keeping one, sharing one, being content in one. Readers who have stuck with me for any time at all know that my obsession compulsion interest in where I live, where other people live, how we dwell in a space, and what we surround ourselves with in said space borders on the ridiculous. I'm sure the deep-seated psychological reasons for this will be revealed by some shrink stumbling on Going40, but I've had more than one partner/friend/concerned citizen roll his eyes as I recite Benjamin Moore's color deck like a rosary. Huh—I just reread that bit. That such a treasure is single is maybe not so surprising?

Anyhoo. Given the little events of the last few months and the attendant group home experience (the licensing for which, by the by, must be incredibly lax), figuring out where to live next (and for some version of forever) has been my overarching concern. I'll spare you the legal considerations and the market and economic implications (here's a clue: we bought high and now we live in the U.S. in 2010). Beyond that, it has taken some months to figure out what I even wanted to come next: could I just keep living forever with loving, generous friends (that will be its very own blog post someday); would I rent for awhile, retreating from real life for a bit, to regroup and prepare to land somewhere down the road; would I find a little house to make my own as I aged into the 80-year-old lady I seem destined to become? All three options have some most attractive components. And, I suppose, some downsides. A responsible bloggist would have put the options to his readership for a vote; instead, I changed my mind each day, spent a staggering amount of time scouring MLS listings online, and wondered to myself (Self? I asked) if a commute to a farm in southwest Minnesota was practical.

In the end, I've come full circle, and am surprised (and so, so, so terrified) to find that the best new home for me is one I never really wanted to leave. Later this summer I'll be making what was once ours, mine. I'm thrilled to contemplate living in a space I love, with friends I adore, in a part of town that is deeply home. Can I afford it? No (that's why we'll have Mandate #6). But I also can't afford not to (again, see U.S. Market Conditions, 2010). And I'm ready: to be on my own, to create a spot that is just so (and to learn when to let go of that little tic), to have a place to be with friends old and new. Duh: to keep a home.

And in answer to the inevitable queries: Gray Clouds, Modern Gray, Spalding Gray*, Lemongrass, and Glowing Firelight.

*It's true that I had no choice but to choose this color when I saw the name. Fortunately, it's my favorite of the bunch.

Sometimes

Sometimes you don't write/call/text/IM/stop by/say hi, because you've been busy—as foster mom would say—having a life. Sometimes you don't have much to say. Sometimes you're in a foul mood and don't want to bring it to anyone else. Sometimes you don't care about mandates and going forward at all. Sometimes you just want to stew in the present—and maybe a little in the past—to remind yourself that there is still some major suckage going on. Sometimes reading someone else's writing is way more gratifying than conjuring up your own (see Perry, Michael). Sometimes you have to think about the play you went to or the movie you saw or the novel you read and wonder why the bad behavior of others counts as entertainment. Sometimes you go for a walk and wonder when real life is going to begin, and then realize oh my god it already has and this is it. Sometimes you listen to sublime music and realize you can do that, too. Sometimes you look at someone and think, really? Sometimes the rainbow isn't enough, and besides, you're not a colored girl. Sometimes your hands are in the dirt and it's warm and moist in a good way. Sometimes the suburbs seem fine. Sometimes having something taken away helps you focus on more important things—like cheese. Sometimes getting there is less than half the fun.