kellementology

life according to me

Category: Questions

  • Learning from Writers

    I’ve been reading portions of William Zinsser’s Inventing the Truth, a collection of pieces by talented writers on The Art and Craft of Memoir. It lays open in a place that I’ll see it throughout the day so that I can noncommittally pick it up and think about what the writers have to say about their respective experiences writing memoir.

    One of the pieces,”Points of Departure,” by  Jill Ker Conway discusses so many different things worth my consideration.  But what I can’t get past is the sheer magnitude of her life — and that I’ve never heard of her before.  How does that happen, and why, after learning of it all, do I not feel insignificant?

    Most likely because I’ve never suffered from being or feeling insignificant.  Of course, everything is relative, so it’s easy to say that I’ve been significant to my family, or good friends, or a student here and there.  Perhaps even to birds I’ve trapped inside and released before they hurt themselves crashing against a window to get out.  Definitely the IRS since they can depend on us for tax dollars. But I’m not talking about any of that.  It’s so much larger than the tiny details that we essentially are.

    I wander through my day and think, “What does it mean?”

    I’ve learned that Anne Lamott’s KFKD will play, relentlessly telling me all things non-constructive — anything to keep me from actually writing something relevant.

    Anything.

    At least if I continue to read Conway, I’ll write, but I’ll want to write about what distracts me, such as her opinion about women being “lodged in family networks [being] very attractive to the political right because it provides a good reason for keeping [them] from establishing a strong independent identity of their own.”

    That’s a few good days of writing all by itself.

    Instead, I’ll think more about what she has to say about memories and their separation from the emotion they so readily evoke.

    I’ll also think about her question, “Why did it happen that way?”

    In the meantime, I’ll write, too.

    It’s easier to take on.

    Girls are certainly different now, aren't they?

  • Time for a Remodel

    I’m truly in a quandry.  As I look back over the past year, so much has changed that no one would notice but me.  I’m speaking of my blog world, and not the real world, which is so chaotic right now.  I’d like to say that I believe I can impact change on the latter, but for as much as I harp, I’m not close to being a blip on the radar of change. With respect to cyberspace, that’s different.

    There’s been a shift of my interests there,  and when I think carefully about that shift, it seems that it’s been coerced by the group that loves to look at, think about, and cook great food.  It’s compelling, and I imagine at times that I have some small shop with a large window in front that people can walk by each day, gazing at what I’ve put out for them, to tempt them to stop and look a bit longer, or perhaps even walk inside and stay for a while.  The key word would be imagine.

    I once imagined or even longed for a shop of my own one day, but I’ve decided that having an imaginary shop is much less expensive, and perhaps just as rewarding considering I do get to decide what to prepare, and enjoy it myself.

    But as I’ve said before, it’s quite time consuming keeping that shop, and so this place is pushed aside.  And when I have time for neither, this is the space I want to fill.  Often the other is more of a compulsion, a responsibility, a job.

    Writing here has never felt that way.

    I’m not quite sure how that happened, but I find it all very interesting — interesting enough to wonder about something.  What if the two were combined?  Others have done it.  And as I read through the many food blogs I enjoy, I notice that because their writers only keep one blog, they are more inclined to write about other facets of life and living.  It’s nice. 

    But I was thinking of something different.  Certainly it’s been done before, and a perfect example of someone who does it very well is Pioneer Woman.  I’ve always thought that having a single place that contains a space for everything that keeps my brain occupied would be perfect, but have always been limited by my knowledge of how all of this website business works.  Finding time to write, cook, photograph, and learn how to set up and manage an involved website would be quite daunting for me, but I think I could do it. The only aspect of it all that’s holding me back is being unsure about whether the two can actually coexist.

    In the long run, I think it would help me be a bit more humane to my readers here.  It must seem at times as if I’m schizophrenic, ranting about politics, moaning over my pets, or snarking about whatever unfortunate person is being lambasted in the press.  Somehow, I think that if each of those personalities could fit into its own box, it would be so much more neat and orderly.

    Labeled.  You know how I crave labels…

    So think about that.  You know, give it a good three or four seconds of your valuable time and let me know what you think.

    In the mean time, I have to get my real world shaped up.  I may not be building a lodge like Pioneer Woman, but this place certainly needs some attention.  I’ve long complained about the damage our pets have done to the carpet, and have finally decided to have someone come out to give an estimate on floors.  I want to get rid of all the carpet so I can enjoy my aging pets who will continue to leak, drip, and drop their various and assorted bodily unmentionables regardless of how much I dab and complain about it.  No more carpet would mean no more dust, fuss, or muss.

    The challenging part of this is that our bathrooms need to be done as well.  Needing to be done can be defined as taking out all the early ’80’s fake burnished gold metal that seems to be covering everything, ripping out the shower since it’s feeble at best, and the tile since it’s really good at growing mold that I don’t want to know the scientific name for or what it’s doing to us.

    So if we have the floors done first, then have the bathrooms done, the work on the bathrooms will mess up the floors.  If we wait to do the bathrooms first, then the carpet continues to be the disgusting eyesore it’s become. 

    In a nut shell, I don’t want to have another blog about being any kind of a weekend warrior when it comes to remodeling or redecorating on a budget.  But it’s one of the things my brain spends time on, so it could have its very own space for you, kind reader, to skip if you’re not into the Martha side of life.

    Just thinking, that’s all.

    Good thing it’s free, right?

    Okay, back to work.

    It would be so nice if it was all free!

  • Yeah? So — what of it?

    Last week, one of the bloggers I’ve come across in foodland wrote a post inquiring about what readers like or don’t like in a blog.  Although I always enjoy this particular person’s posts because she’s extremely smart, very opinionated, and an excellent writer, they’re unusual in that they aren’t always about recipes and food porn shots.

    No, not THAT kind of food porn.  This kind.

    She attracts tons of comments, also unusual for much of foodland. No, not the sheer quantity, which is quite impressive, but the quality. Nearly every commenter has something substantive to say about whatever she has written.

    I know I’ve been hooked more than once to chime in — whether it’s in response to what she has written, or to what one of the commentators has mentioned.   And although I’ve taken liberties before with her generous space (she allows 3000 character comments…whoa!) to respond in a near post, I’ve waited on this one, just to see if the slow burn that I developed reading that day would dissipate.

    Nope.

    Maybe it’s because everyone has an opinion and that’s annoying.  No, that wouldn’t work since I’m the leader of the pack.

    Or, it could be that a blog is such a personal thing as compared to a magazine, or a newspaper, and, well, it’s free. So as much as we all wonder at times who reads our blathering and who doesn’t (or why), it isn’t like we’ll go out of business and stop the presses if no one reads.  We just hobble pathetically along, right?  Uh-huh.  Whatever.

    I think my favorite comment had to do with “lengthy blog posts” which is probably why I’m still simmering.

    When have I NOT done a lengthy post? Excuse the hell out of me, but Hell would freeze over first.  I found it quite ironic, since the person making the comment was doing so on a blog that publishes lengthy posts. Excellent posts, mind you, but lengthy.  Glad I’m in such good company.   In much the same way that there are political cartoonists who turn huge issues into a few words and an image, some choose to write, far too many talk whether anyone is listening or not, and some joke.  I’d rather not read blogs that only publish one short silly post after another.  What’s the point?  They didn’t invest any kind of thought, so why should I?  *Tsk, tsk.  Cranky, aren’t we?*

    A few comments had to do with changing things on the blog. They were concerned that something would change.

    News Flash.  Things Change.  You know, like the planet?  Or haven’t you noticed?  Half the fun of having a blog is to CHANGE things.  What?  It’s difficult to read the words and the thinking behind the words if the font changes?  Or the header?  Or the widgets…wait, I need to fan myself…

    Some of the commenters groused about music players on blogs — you know, where you open a blog and the author has a favorite piece playing?

    I’m thinking that it’s not TOO CHALLENGING to lower the volume if you choose not to listen.  But perhaps for those individuals, finding the volume button is.

    Even better?  Some mentioned that since they read blogs while at work, the players were on loud and that others might hear.

    WAIT.  Let me get this straight.  A person is reading blogs at work instead of working, but she wants YOU to not have a music player on your blog so HER coworkers can’t hear it...  Okay, the line forms to the left for egotistical maniacs.  Seriously.

    Another chimer-inner and subsequent dittoers voiced their complaints about blogs and awards. That they’re tiresome.  That they know the only reason people give out awards is to get credit for links.

    Actually, at least from my speck of perspective, when I pass on an award that someone has given me, it’s because I believe that person deserves it.  Go back to the point about investing time in reading blogs.  When you do that, you can actually say thanks to someone else, and recognize that effort in a meaningful way.  Oh, but wait.  That would be a long, involved post, wouldn’t it?  And you’d actually have to be able to say why you enjoyed someone’s blog for a reason other than it’s short. But what do I know?

    This one’s the doozie.  Some mentioned that the only time people comment on their blog is after they’ve posted, and only because they want that individual to come comment on theirs.

    Huh?  You’ve got to be kidding.  And then some people defended themselves over this crap, like they actually needed to dignify it with any kind of response other than bull*hit.  So let’s see.  I spend my time writing which is no small investment of time, and then my reward is to visit those I enjoy reading AND look around for new ones, and that’s categorized as fishing for comments?  Bear in mind this is BEFORE I do my housework for gawdsakes. What if I read other’s blogs first?  Wait.  I do my email first, and that actually takes a while.  So if I read blogs first, and commented — which I almost always take the time to do — I’d never get around to posting.  Who are these people and why are they so whiney?

    Last, but not least.  Advertisements. I bet you knew this was coming?  Several people mentioned the ads and how annoying they are.

    Fine.  Ever looked at a magazine?  Newspaper?  Watch television?  I know.  I don’t like commercials, either, which is why TiVo exists, or why I wait to go to the bathroom on the commercials — you know, to piss off the advertisers.  Except for Target.  I love their ads.  Where was I?  Oh yes, advertisements on blogs.  Guess what?  Don’t pay attention to them then.  It’s really not that difficult.  Sure, if a site has ten pop-ups then it’s a problem, but you should have figured out how to block those a long time ago.  Tune into this Bat Channel, yanno?  As for the sites that run lots of those square tech ads?  Hell.  Click on them once in a while.  They actually lead to sites that have good information if that’s what you’re looking for.  It’s not like some boogie man will pop out and bite your head off.  But now that I’m thinking of it, that’s not a bad idea.  At least it would spare us the inane comments.

    And while I’m on the subject…my ads pay for my hosting service.  Would you bend over and pick up that check if it blew up against your shoe?  Now it would be swell if they paid for all the time I spent writing and managing, cooking, shooting, and editing.  But it doesn’t.  The MoH pays for that, and I’m sure he’s wishing I’d get off my butt and actually write something that involved an advance and some sales.

    But he’s a very patient man.

    So, what’s your take on all of this hooplah?  I’m being overly sensitive, right?  I should just shut my mouth and get back to work?

    Pass you a slice of that cake?

    Hell, I’m relieved none of them said they were sick of people who plastered stoopid photos of themselves all over their blogs all the time.

    Heh.

  • Wordle and Other Excellent Friday Distractions

    Have you spent time with wordle yet?

    It’s fun if you don’t have anything better to do. In fact, it’s perfect if you do have things to do, but just can’t seem to motivate yourself to do them.

    Cleaning the house seems more attractive by comparison considering the dark mood I was in after spending some time pencil writing last evening. I actually accomplished something while sitting in the late afternoon sun, thinking, remembering, questioning. And then my neighbor came home and wandered over to talk.  This would be the neighbor who feigns neighborliness until one’s out of earshot.  The one who puts his trash out on Sunday morning to sit for an entire day so the rest of the neighborhood can enjoy its loveliness.  The one who who seizes any moment to mention that our dog barks when she doesn’t.  And who lets the spindly trees that are supposed to be a hedge grow without trimming them.  Robert Frost had something to say about good fences making good neighbors, didn’t he?

    Sometimes, I like to think that things happen for a reason, and the exercise was enough to make me really wonder about whether some aspects of our lives need to be put down on paper — even if they’re fictionalized. And if they actually happened, then why the need to fictionalize?

    I’m just not sure.

    But my mood was with me through the night, and it wasn’t until after I returned from my early walk with my friend that I realized the mood was gone, my spirits lifted.

    That’s what exercise, non-stop blathering about everything under the sun, and laughter will do.

    Of course, finding more interesting ways to distract myself also works.  I haven’t been able to decide whether I look best in Mucha,

    Modigliani,

    or Botticelli, 

    but I’m leaning toward the latter since we saw La Primavera, The Birth of Venus, and other beautiful works while we were in Italy.

    Well, and the eyebrows are right.  Nonexistent. Or very nearly.

    In my next life, I will have eyebrows.

    Perhaps I will write about that.

  • Nobody likes orange.

    Finally.  A new, peaceful theme.

    IMG_1047.JPG

    I wasn’t truly loving the orange in my last digs, but something odd has happened as a result of that recent having to live with it for as long as I did and survive.  When I’m out and about, all things orange catch my eye.  And I have been doing a bit of shopping since our vacation is looming…

    …in twelve days.

    So why am I messing around with my blog theme, you ask?

    (more…)

  • Through my new lens…

    Garden Mirror

    It’s interesting, this new writing venue of mine, no longer in our office since my mother’s taken up residence there. My used to be vanity is now my desk, positioned in front of one of my bedroom windows, allowing me a gauzy view of the palms outside, and my neighbors, an unearthly glow sometimes after twilight.

    Today, the palm fronds are damp and tossing about in the stiff breeze that Mother Nature has put upon us, taking the June Gloom we’re accustomed to in Paradise to a new level. It’s cold and grey, the street is actually wet, and I’ve had to shut all my windows or freeze my ass off while sitting here, pretending to be pithy.

    (more…)

  • Obama the Dream Boat?

    One of the entertaining aspects of being completely incapable of getting a good night’s sleep these days is being able to remember the dreams I have. I’m actually awake long enough to acknowledge them, think about them, and give each a kind of evaluation. Nothing complicated. Just a sort of, “Whoa. That was interesting…” and it crops up through the day as I’m putzing around. A doozie will actually garner a mention of the dream to someone.

    Like yesterday.

    I was in my less than lovely lounging attire: flannel and beyond silky soft with wear jammy bottoms, a grungy blue tee, and an old Eddie Bauer oversized so not matching blue plaid shirt. It’s day time, or as much daytime as my dreams ever are. It’s my mother’s old neighborhood. The one we lived in the longest in the house right next door to my best friend’s house. I actually wonder whether her mother still lives there in all of this strangeness. There are lots of people standing behind yellow plastic Do Not Cross tape and a tall thin man in a great suit is striding away from where I’m standing with the crowd in the street. They’re cheering and pointing at him as I walk toward him, never quite seeing his face.

    No one tries to stop me as I approach him, catching up.

    I reach around from behind to embrace him as one might someone they care about and haven’t seen in a while completely unaffected by the oddness of this situation I find myself in.

    “I missed you,” I say to him, wrapping my arms completely around until they meet and I clasp my hands at his waist.

    “Why?” he answers softly. “I’ve been here all the time.”

    “Because I spend all day reading and thinking about you,” I tell him, picturing time spent on the Internet seeing his face in a story here and and an article there.

    How romantic, but it’s a bit strange when I consider that the man is not the MoH, it’s Obama.

    Excuse me?

    I had a dream about Barack Obama?

    Okay…

    So, first of all, I don’t spend my day reading about him on the Internet. In fact, I’m quite bad at reading news on the Internet period. My “homepage” is Google. So I see bits and pieces of news on the television in passing if the news is on, or hear snippets on NPR in the car while running errands and shuttling kids to and from school. I do keep my eye on the goings on and do tune in when yet another primary is approaching just so I can make sure I’m still as sick as I was of the pundits and their crap as I have been all along.

    It sounds like a big fat load of excuses, doesn’t it?

    And couldn’t I just dream of maybe seeing him? You know, in passing after a speech or something? That might be a tad more normal, don’t you think? Slightly?

    I actually remember thinking in the dream that I could, clad as I was in my beyond tacky house potato attire, shed a poor light on his quest to be our next president. That people may not vote for him because some deranged woman, who surely must know that Michele Obama would be kicking her ass for touching her man, was, erm, touching her man. Embracing him. In public. With a crowd standing by.

    Of course I had to consult with a dream interpretation source. I filed through the alpha list of “characters,” impatiently looking for what character Obama might represent while on my way to the “P” section. Politician, right?

    Celebrity…Godzilla…Hero…Lawyer…Mummy…President…Wet Nurse? But no politician.

    What does it suggest when one can find dream interpretations for a wet nurse, pervert, or a zombie, but not a politician and I’m dreaming about one?

    Okay, so maybe it’s more about a feeling and not a character. The source mentions that dreaming of love denotes “intense feelings carried over from a waking relationship. It implies happiness and contentment with what you have and where you are in life.”

    Whew. It had me going for a while to think that maybe my subconscious had the hots for the next President of the United States. Let alone that I’d be stoopid enough to go out in public in my slovenly comfies. After all, he does have very nice suits. I would only look that much worse standing next to him.

    Or embracing him.

    Obama.

    Baby.

  • Gullibility and a Strong Core

    In case you were wondering, I’m alive. I did go out on a couple of early morning walks this week, smartly attired in my plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. By the time Thursday rolled around, though, I was on auto pilot and made a nose dive back into bed. Rude.

    Tone your core while you blog! But today is Friday, and you know how I feel about that under normal circumstances, but today? It is my very first non-working, permanently retired if I feel like it Friday. Okay, so retired from working for others work. Payroll work. Having to get dressed and go to work work. So how did I celebrate?
    I broke in my new ball.  I sat on it all day and tried valiantly to do something about the organization of this pathetic looking blog of mine.  Nothing has improved on the blog, but at least I’ve rolled and swirled and bounced myself toward a firmer core.  Yes, you, too can burn calories while you blog!  Of course we may not be able to get out of bed tomorrow, but still.

    What else is new?

    Not much, but yesterday when I was coming out of the grocery store with one of my green bags I finally remembered to remove from the trunk, a young man with a nice smile and a multitude of those disks inserted in his ears and a few other places I can’t remember right now, looked in my direction. He had a clipboard and a purpose.

    “You want money, right?” I began since I’m not very good at beating around the bush when I talk. His eyes even smiled.

    “Do you know about Greenpeace?” he began.

    “Of course I know about Greenpeace,” I told him, flashing on images of news footage years ago of ships with nuclear reactors being prevented from entering a port in Australia or something like that. “But do you have any idea how many requests we get each week for contributions? It’s out of control. Even NPR hasn’t been able to peel my money out of my fist yet.” Who do you give money to when everybody wants it? His smile never left his eyes as he let me blather on until I asked if I could make a donation on line. And when he began to respond, I interrupted him realizing that he wouldn’t get credit for the donation.

    “I need to be able to show something for my effort her today,” he told me.

    “So fine, can I give $15?”

    “No, we’re only set up to take monthly contributions,” he told me, explaining that it helped the organization have a more steady stream of cash instead of having to wait until the end of the year for a lump sum.

    “Okay. Okay. Okay. Where do I sign? Can I do $10 a month?”

    “No, I’m sorry, the minimum is $15. That’s only $5 more,” he added as I looked away from the form I was already filling out, and making it easier for those leaving the store to escape my fate.

    “I can add. The math’s not that challenging,” I mouthed off, and he laughed good-naturedly, most likely thinking I was nuts.

    “Do you want a sticker?” he continued as used the side of a brown crayon to rub an impression from my credit card on the form.

    “Sure. I need something to show for my money, right? And if someone steals my credit card number, Greenpeace will be paying the bills. Make sure you tell them that, okay?” I called over my shoulder after picking up my green bag to walk away. “I’ll blog about you…”

    “Thanks!” he said, still grinning. Talk about job satisfaction. Jeez. But I always wonder when I send off a contribution to any organization, just how much of it is eaten in administrative costs.

    So when the MoH got home, I asked what he knew about Greenpeace since I joined.

    “Great. They float around on a boat and cause a lot of problems,” he mumbled, partly in jest.

    I’ll have to work on him a bit more. He’s no where near to being green.

  • Who pulled our plugs?

    Who pulled our plugs?

    A couple of days ago, on the day after the official end of busy season, I was speaking to someone at work and mentioned that I’d considered calling 911 when I woke up that morning, in jest, of course. You may recall my whining about needing air in my tires or something, yes? And when the individual questioned me about whether or not I was in charge of my own destiny, I became annoyed.

    (more…)

  • Teddy Bears and Food Chains

    Could someone out there tell me what is wrong with people who have their heads so wrapped up in their religious identities that they can’t behave in a civilized fashion?  It would certainly help me at least begin to try to understand them. Or pretend to try and understand them.  Okay, so maybe not.

    I’m not one to judge what people believe and why.  Really.  I notice and move on.  I may question it, think about it, maybe even worry about it or roll my eyes a few times. But that’s all. I completely understand that my purpose on this earth is to be a constructive human, and to raise productive humans.  I don’t point fingers, or get too caught up in others’ day-to-day drama. Blogging doesn’t count.

    But once in a while, I wonder why there are people who are so consumed with their beliefs they aren’t satisfied until those beliefs are plastered everywhere forcing everyone else to see and know what they stand for — religiously.  I’m not talking about tree huggers here, okay?

    I have trouble understanding when said people consumed with their religious beliefs (read men in Sudan and other places, but especially Sudan for this particular point) that they take to the streets calling for the execution of a woman who allowed her child to name a toy.

    Surely this warrants an eye for an eye.  (I’m trying to understand here, okay?)

    Surely, they have absolutely nothing better to do with their time after they’ve just finished worshiping than to crowd together acting like complete barbarians for the sake of a man who, if alive, would most likely be horrified to know that what he stood for has been so completely distorted.

    When events such as this happen, I try to put myself in the position of the one so rudely offended.  I try to find a similar situation where I (or another as noble and understanding as myself, of course) might be equally offended.  Now the first example that comes to mind is the fact that many families from Spain (or countries that were invaded by Spain when it was obsessed with its religious beliefs and killing those who didn’t agree…) traditionally name their male offspring “Jesus.”  Say “Hay-soos” and you’ve got it.  I have heard someone question whether this is “okay” since fair-skinned individuals who are avid believers in Christianity would never name their male children Jesus.  Never.  But that’s a weak example, isn’t it?  Hmmmm…?  Okay, everyone…to the streets!  Such heinous disrespect!

    Do they TRULY believe the British teacher should have to face imprisonment, 40 lashes, deportation, or as the learned masses demand — execution?  Really?  Why might the children not understand that this isn’t appropriate?  Might the families be falling down on their religious responsibilities to educate their children about all the truly important dogma they must adhere to in order to become crazed zealots by the time they’re old enough to join a crowd in the streets to call for revenge by violent means?

    You know.

    To even the score.

    Sure.  That should take care of it.

    I know somewhere, there’s a connection to the food chain.  Everything has a place on it.  I’m wondering what religious zealots’ place on the chain is.  What their purpose in life is.  Why entire countries and their governments have gotten it all so horribly wrong.

    They must not have enough to read.  Not enough to stimulate their intellectual capacity.  Enough to encourage individuality and creativity.  Constructive inspiration.  Freedom.

    It’s challenging for me to not acknowledge my intense reaction when I read about events such as this, or watch segments on the news.  My distaste is extreme, and familiar ability to tolerate missing.

    I don’t want to understand their reaction.

    I don’t feel like I should have to try.

    I’m not comfortable with their actions…

    …or them.

    They’re dangerous.