It's a Wash

I hate doing laundry. I mean, there are a lot of household things that I really kind of enjoy, but laundry isn't one of them. Still, I'm the one who stays home, and it's my responsibility to do Nettl's and my clothes and linens.

Thinking I could get a head start on today, I decided after dinner last night to get the laundry out of the way. It's not like it's a huge job, because I do it every week without fail, resulting in only three average loads: darks, colors, and towels, etc. Sometimes there's another load, but not usually.

I threw the darks into the machine and came into the bedroom to take an after-dinner siesta. But something wasn't right. I wasn't hearing the noises I've gotten used to hearing, so I went to the laundry closet to have a look. Sure enough, the machine was full of water and dirty clothes, and just sitting there doing nothing. I tried to force it through its cycles, but there was no draining, no spinning. Nothing. Nettl and I wrung out everything by hand (Levis--ouch!) and put it in the kitchen sink to drain, then I wrung it out again and ran it through two dryer cycles.

Around noon today I"ll be at Ville's for a while, using her machine. Oh, hurt me. Then, on Saturday Nettl and I will be taking our anniversary money (we were going to go out of town for a night) to Sears to get another Kenmore. We're not too broken up over losing our romantic weekend though, because this could have happened when we didn't have the money to plop down on a new machine. We're still planning to go out to dinner, and let's face it, after raising kids together for the past 10 years, we've learned how to create romance in any situation.

I knew the thing was about to die, and I nursed it along for almost a year, but let's face it. It's serviced five adults and three teenagers in its lifetime; I think it's due some rest.

Because I'm All Written Out Tonight

Jac, at Byzantium's Shores, posted a music quiz that I thought I'd lend my hand to. I cut out about half of the questions though, and edited it a bit. You know how most of these quizzes read as if they're written by twelve year-olds. Actually, most of them are, come to think of it. Anyway, here goes.

1. What are you listening to right now?
At this moment? Nothing. In general? I have a couple of playlists that I created, songs from the 60s-80s, that I listen to when I'm writing. Things from Cream, ELO, and Toto, to name only one from each decade.

2. What song(s) make(s) you sad?
It's not usually a lyric that makes me sad, but a melody and its harmonic structure. These Dreams by Heart, for example, always makes me feel momentarily sad, as does Procol Harum's A Whiter Shade of Pale and Elgar's Enigma Variations. One mustn't omit Mozart's Requiem Mass, either.

3. What is the most annoying song in the world?
That melody-less boom boom that comes from the cars that drive by. I swear they all play the same song, and only that song.

4. What is your all time favorite band?
The Beatles, of course.

5. What is your newly discovered band?
Not a band, a guitarist: Rory Gallagher.

6. Who has the best female voice?
In rock music, Ann Wilson of Heart. In classical music, Kathleen Battle. In folk, Joni Mitchell. In Jazz, Queen Latifa. In blues, Bonnie Raitt. In Broadway, Bette Midler. In soul, Aretha Franklin. In country, Trisha Yearwood. Have I left anything out?

7. Who has the best male voice?
(Here we go again.) In rock music, early Paul McCartney. In classical music, Sir Thomas Allen. In Folk, John Denver. In Jazz, Mel Torme. In blues, Stevie Ray Vaughn. In Broadway, Robert Goulet. In Soul, Stevie Wonder. In country, Garth Brooks.

8. What type of music do you find yourself listening to most?
It all depends on my mood, but lately, it's music of the 60s-80s.

9. To what do you listen to hype you up?
Songs with positive lyrics, like Pete Townshend's A Little is Enough, Steve Winwood's Back in the High Life, and The Moody Blues' I Know You're Out There Somewhere.

10. What do you listen to when you want to calm down?
Folk or chamber music. Sometimes a little Stan Getz.

11. What was the last concert you went to?
It was a fortepiano recital.

12. What band do you find yourself listening to the most at present?
I seem to be listening to a bit of Toto again.

13. What song makes you think?
Tal Bachman's I Am Free, but not just the lyrics. It's his compositional structure that makes me think. I recently contacted him about it and we passed a bunch of emails discussing it. He's the guy who wrote and recorded She's So High Above Me, and is an exceptional musician.

14. What is the coolest music video?
Well, Michael Jackson's Thriller is probably the best, but my favorite is still Weapon of Choice by Fatboy Slim and starring Chris Walken.

15. What do you play/would you play in the bedroom to spice things up?
Mozart's adagios or any instrumental Baroque. Also, Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez. Wow!

16. Can you play a musical instrument?
What do you have, and can you give me an hour alone with it? Seriously, I play 6 and 12 string guitars, bass, drums, piano, clarinet, penny whistle, bodhran, mandolin, banjo, dulcimer, and bowed psaltry.

17. Are you in a band?
Not anymore, but I've been in a few.

18. Have you ever dated a musician?
My first boyfriend played lead guitar in a really popular band in California in the 60s. After that, no. Not until I met Nettl.

19. What is the best female band?
There are two, actually. Heart and Fanny.

20. Do you listen to music in foreign languages?
Yes. I love opera.

21. What was your worst concert moment?
I broke a guitar string at the climax of a really good performance once. Luckily, I was on my 12-string, so no one really noticed. But the string kept flying around and getting in the way. Kind of dented the moment for me.

22. What was your funniest concert moment?
One year at the opening night performance of Nutcracker, everyone in the orchestra plotted together to wear silly Christmas and holiday socks beneath our usual concert black. When Frank took the podium in the orchestra pit, we lifted our clothing to expose the socks and I thought he was going to die laughing.

23. What was your saddest concert moment?
Frank's farewell concert after 30 years. He conducted Elgar's Enigma Variations, and I couldn't quit crying during the final variation. It still makes me cry.

24. If you were a musical instrument, what would you be?
A Martin 12-string, baby!

25. Do you listen to the radio?
Only in the car.

26. Do you follow the music charts, like the Top 40?
Nah. I really don't give a damn anymore.

27. Have you met any famous musicians?
Ernie Joseph, the Lovin' Spoonful, the Boxtops, Sky Saxon (the Seeds), Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, Johnny Rivers, Kin Vassy, Donovan, Paul McCartney, Jimi Hendrix, the Leaves, Victor Borge, the Golabeck Sisters, the Doobie Brothers, Eric Burdon. If I've forgotten any, one of my friends can remind me in the comments.

28. Are any of your friends/family/etc. musicians?
Every one on my father's side was a musician, as was my brother. Many, many friends.

29. What song best describes your feelings right now?
Watchin' the Wheels by John Lennon.

30. What song best describes your life?
A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum: "I was feeling kind of seasick, but the crowd called out for more..."

31. Does a musician’s physical attractiveness play a role in the music that you listen to?
Hell no. Who cares!

32. What is your favourite movie sound track?
Probably The Lord of the Rings. I don't really pay attention to movies or soundtracks though.

33. Do you wear band T-shirts?
I'd LOVE to, but I don't have any anymore. All I have that's close is a black tee that has written on it, This is not part of my Rock and Roll fantasy.

34. Do you cook to music?
I was just thinking this evening that I need some sounds in the kitchen.

35. Do you sing in the bathroom?

No, but I listen to music in the bath tub.

Fried Green What?

On Friday evening J came over bearing two bottles of Broke Ass Wine, one white (for me) and one red (for her). For a so-called recession table wine it was pretty good, reminding me of a chardonnay. I don't know about the red, because I didn't try it.

The weather was beautiful, probably in the high 70s, so we sat out on the front porch at our bistro table. My sons joined us and we had a great time talking, laughing, and eating chips and salsa. J's always a lot of fun anyway. Typical Gemini.

When she left, the guys and I continued the party, and at one point in the evening, pretty late, actually, a homeless man came up the walk and we invited him to join us. After introductions, I asked him if he was hungry and could I fix him something. He was thankful, and I went inside and fixed him a plate of our leftover fried chicken dinner from a couple of nights ago. He said his name was David and that he was an engineer that had fallen on hard times after a divorce and child custody problems. He was very polite and very grateful for the company, the laughter, and the food.

I have to confess that the wine turned on me later, after David left and we came indoors. I haven't been that ill since my college years, and the next day I wracked my brain trying to figure it out. Today, J told me the wine had the same effect on her, so I wouldn't suggest drinking Broke Ass wine. We now call it Kick Ass Wine.

This evening, David dropped by again. He was cleaned up and was on his way to evening services. The man had taken the trouble to pick a large bouquet of wildflowers and walk the 12 blocks to our house to give them to us as a thank you gift. Needless to say, this made us feel all Ruth and Idgey inside (remember how they befriended Smokey?) and we decided that if he comes back around (and if we have the extra cash), we'll pay him to do an odd job or two. The good news was that he's looking into getting an apartment, and he may have a job lined up. I hope that's true, and I hope things start looking up for him.

Ernie Joseph's Site is Live

I spoke on the phone with Ernie earlier this evening. I always love talking with him. He's so interesting and so humble, and he feels things so deeply. He'd sent me his responses to my interview questions, and I needed to go over a couple of them with him. I then told him about the site and gave him the URL. Needless to say, I was pretty nervous until I got an email a few moments ago in which he said he loved the site and was going to send me more stuff for it; pictures and the like.

"This is really great! You blew me away--it's beyond cool.  ....LLLLOVE You, Sweet Thing!"

Yeah, I just go all gooshy inside when my "Big Bro" says stuff like that. I have another entry I want to make tonight, but I wanted to get this up straight away. Check it out!

Is Your Guitar Your Sex Symbol?

One thing writing this trilogy is doing for me is that it's getting me back in touch with music I haven't listened to in many years, namely the Blues. And it's bringing up a few questions as well. I have a small assignment for you.

Here's a video by Bonnie Raitt.





Give me some feedback here. What's the difference (if there is any) between a woman playing a guitar and a man playing it? Seems to me that on a man a guitar is a phallic symbol. Many male musicians play it and pose with it as if it is, anyway, and many, many guitar icons refer to their instrument as if it's a woman and gives it a woman's name. If that's true, then what is it on a female?

Here's a vid of Stevie Ray Vaughn playing the same song (he started out in Bonnie's band, by the way).



Compare the feeling you get watching him to what you feel watching Raitt. I'm not asking about how well you think they play, or what you think about their style, or even with how much feeling they play. I'm asking about the FEELINGS you get watching them.

I understand that there probably will be as many different answers as there will be people commenting; it's a subjective thing. But I'm curious.

One More Tro-lo-lo Till Friday

Nettl's cousin posted this on Facebook last night. Just thought I'd get your Thursday off to a good start.

Source

Endings at the Beginning of the Day

I don't know how other writers come up with endings for their books, but I get mine long before I even finish writing the story. Often, the end reveals itself and all I need to do is direct the story toward it. The end of Book One came to me last week, and the end of Book Three night before last. Book Two's end is still out there somewhere, waiting. I never try to devise endings, they just come to me. I suspect this this pretty common.

My grandfather, who grew up as a child star in Vaudeville, used to to say, "Give 'em a smash beginning and a bang-up end, and the middle will take care of itself." I've found that holds true in just about everything. Those old song and dance men understood how memory works, and they milked the audience using this formula. People will forgive a lot if the ending knocks them off their feet.

When it comes to endings, with music as well as books, I like symmetry. I like to bring everything back around from the beginning and tie it up with a big red bow. That's my neo-classicism at work, the old A-B-A that is hardwired into me. It's in all of us, as a matter of fact. Play a three chord progression, I (tonic), IV (sub-dominant), V (Dominant)... and the brain automatically returns to I (tonic). Try this:

                                                 I                                      IV

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

                                           V                                                                        I

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

                                           I                                                 IV

Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,

                                          V                                                                         I

Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away.

 Hear how the brain wants to naturally go back "home" to the tonic? If I have a formula for writing, it's this. Oh, and welcome to your first lesson in Music Theory.

I'd give you a bang-up ending to this post, but I'm up early and my brain isn't quite awake yet.

I'll Never be a Saint

One of the character traits I'll continue to keep battling, regardless of how many lives I live, is indignance, which actually boils down to ego, which in turn boils down to fear. It doesn't matter how I try to combat it, or for how many years, it pops up its nasty little head every time I feel slighted, not taken seriously, scolded, or mocked.

Meditation helps for a while, but I'm just not one of those serene types that can spend hours in it in an attempt to keep the real world at bay. I used to think that I could be like those who appear to live in a New Age trance enjoying the vegan lifestyle and somehow being above mere mortals, but I quickly discovered that I didn't want to live like that.

But I've gotten a bit off-topic here. I really wanted to talk about the hell day that was yesterday. It was one of those that started off badly and only got worse. Then I got unfairly jumped on by someone I've always admired. It hurt my feelings and that's where my indignance jumped in. In an effort to turn my hurt into something positive, I read an essay Paramahansa Yogananda wrote about getting one's feelings hurt, and how to shut that off.

I love Yoganandaji. In the early 80s I studied his teachings and was initiated into his Self-Realization Fellowship. George Harrison was a member, as well as Dennis Weaver, who spoke once a month at Lake Shrine, where George's funeral service was held. I learned a lot of good things from the SRF, but I didn't keep up with it, although it continues to call to me. As a hedonist it's impossible for me to be Zen about anything either, or any of those other Hippie chic things that I used to work so hard at. As Al Stewart said in his hit, If It Doesn't Come Naturally, Leave It.


So I'm telling all of you "Do-Gooders" who feel the need to preach at me:

• I like being human. I didn't come into Life to deny it and refuse to enjoy its fullness. There's plenty of time for denying my humanity after I leave it.
• I don't like soy products.
• I don't believe in homeopathy.
• I like meat and I have no problem eating it.
• I enjoy my beer and my wine, and yes, I like a good buzz.
• I refuse to spend my time on this planet feeling like I don't belong here. I am of the earth; I'm not some nebulous vapor floating around inside of some sadhu's begging bowl.
• I'm in charge of my own karma, damn it, not you, and I'll deal with it myself.
• I get sick of every.little.thing being a moral issue. YOUR moral issue.
• I'm not a child.
• My cholesterol levels are my business. If I give myself a heart attack, that's my business.
• No one here gets out alive, so I choose to live till I die, not live in a constant state of fear of dying.
• I really don't want to wear fur, but I do defend my right to make that choice for myself.
• My soul is my business; I don't remember you being set up as my Holy Spirit.
• If you're so bloody spiritual, then why are you so judgmental and insensitive?
• If you really dislike it that much, don't look.

Part of my getting older is learning to accept myself just as I am, to realize that as noble and lofty my personal and spiritual aspirations were when I was young, they weren't that as much as they were an effort to invent myself. That, I think, is true wisdom that comes with age. I'll close this with one of my favorite quotes.

"I'm not Ted Nugent. My house is run, essentially, by an adopted, fully clawed cat with a mean nature. I would never hunt. I would never wear fur. I would never go to a bullfight. I'm not really a meat and potatoes guy. But the world is a big place, and this sort of nonsense smacks of elitism, contempt, and fear — and those are all things I struggle against." Anthony Bourdain

A Last Minute Heads Up

I've only recently come to the realization that my main character, Gordon, was built on a lifetime of inspiration drawn from my "Big Brother Ernie Joseph", which makes sense because Ernie was the first Rock star I saw perform live, met, and became friends with.

I spent the weekend creating a tribute blog for him. He doesn't know about it yet (I'm waiting for him to get an email interview back to me so that I can post it). If you want to make a great musician and wonderful human being happy, please follow this link and become a Follower!

F*** it Monday

I'm not the kind of person who goes in for all the "I hate Mondays" stuff that I read everywhere on line. I kind of follow the idea that we make our day what it is and Monday is no worse than any other day of the week. But then, I work from home. Which doesn't mean I don't have my frustrations and BS to deal with like anyone else, it just means that I'm no longer part of the commute group.

I have to confess that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. I was in the middle of a dream in which I was so pissed off that I was slamming doors and mumbling out loud. Then the cat woke me up with her "My bistro is still on top if the fridge so I'm going to thrash your favorite chair with my claws until you get your ass up and feed me" routine. Never mind that she had both canned and dry food for breakfast only a few hours ago.

We go through this nearly every morning, but today it got to me more than usual. She doesn't give a damn that I was up working until dawn. Her hairy ass could sleep through an F7 tornado. And let's not overlook the fact that for a full hour afterward she pulled this crap about every five or six minutes. When that didn't work, she started in with her "squirrel" acrobatics, running the length of the house and leaping into the air. You who are cat staff know what I'm talking about.

I have stuff to do today and I don't wanna. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just keep my ass in bed until this mood passes.

A Very Stevie Saturday #5: George Harrison Makes a Curry

And God Saw That it Was Good (funny stuff)

Justification

I am completely justified and I have NO reason to feel guilty!

There. That feels better.

I confess. I spend a lot of time here on the bed, blogging, writing, designing websites, playing Farmville... But my favorite wingback chair in the living room hurts my back after a while, as does the chair at the dining room table. The sofa is right out, and, well, there's just no place else to go, and no place to hang my hammock.

Vinnie love Junebugs.

Plus, there's no view from the living room, and our bed sits beside a huge bay window that shows me the entire corner on which we live. From here, I see everything: people walking their dogs, students on bikes, neighbors gardening, birds, cats, dogs, squirrels, asshats in pickups burning rubber. I watch the seasons change. The other evening I saw J come up the walk with her dog, Vinnie. Why should I sit anywhere else?

The cat loves this window, too. In fact, her current favorite sleeping spot is on the right side of the bay. There's a window seat, you see, and we have a faux fur throw that she has claimed. But that's not the extent of it. Right outside that window is a bush that gets loaded with birds, so she sits there, making that clicking noise that cats make. She demands that the window be open so that her instinct can drive her crazy. Birds: so close and so far away!

Anyway, I feel justified sitting here, but I rarely sit IN bed, I sit ON bed. Being in the bed is a guilty pleasure I haven't gotten quite used to.

This is What You Get

So, what do I do every night when I'm up until dawn? Well, these days I'm usually writing, reworking, or editing. Sometimes I read and sometimes I Stumble around the web looking for stuff that you might find interesting or amusing. And because I've spent the past week writing some pretty heavy, emotionally draining stuff, I'm giving you the dreaded bullet list of some of the places I've 'favorited'.

• A Rainbow in Your Hand
• Ten Things Your Zoadiac Sign Hates
• Kurt Vonnegut Explains Drama
• The Most Awesome Floors Ever Created
• Incredible Hand Art
• Danteworlds
• 10 Extremely Funny Beer Names
• Coolest Ice Cubes Around</a> (I like the shark fins)
• The Art of Cutting Leaves
• The Top 10 of Everything
• Fascinating Shadow Art
• How Would We Meet a Huge Asteroid? (a cartoon)
• The Most Alien Landscapes on Earth
• 7 Man-Made Substances that Laugh in the Face of Physics
• Mike's Amazing Cakes (and possibly the coolest load page I've ever encountered)
• Lost Camera (wish I'd thought of this)
• Coolest Places to Stay and See the Northern Lights
• The Sky in Your Web Browser (might want to take some Dramamine)
• Paradoxymoron
• Web Surfing Can Increase Your Brain's Function (a justification)

Whatever Happened to the "Renaissance Man"?

I've always identified as a musician, a songwriter, a composer and a performer. Although I always wrote--and always enjoyed doing it--I never took writing as seriously as I did music. I thought of it as a hobby. Sometimes I still think of myself as a temporarily blocked musician, but I'm beginning to check myself on that.

Why must we fascinating creatures focus only on one talent when we have so many? Whatever happened to the Renaissance Man or Woman? What happened to the Woman or Man of Letters? What happened to self-education and people wanting to be well-rounded by knowing at least a little bit about almost everything? I remember a teacher in high school once telling us that the problem with specialists is that they study longer and longer to learn more and more about less and less.

The thing is, we're all loaded with talents and abilities, most of which we're not even aware. Humans are creative beings. We don't just pass our time on this planet like the other animals with whom we share it, we create, we invent. We not only have the capacity to create, we possess a profound hunger to create. So why does society insist that creativity--and those of us who exercise it--are misfits, human oddities, and even miscreants?

When I was busy writing Night Music I often wondered if I'd missed my calling, but now, much older and a little wiser, I understand how ignorant that idea was. I don't have a calling. I compose, I write. I also draw, sculpt, cook, decorate, design websites, and make people laugh... different aspects of this thing we call creativity.

It seems to me the entire world has learned more and more about less and less, and in doing so, we have allowed ourselves to become more and more less and less.

Pale Blue Dot

Spring Outside My Window

An older neighborhood like ours can begin to look pretty dowdy and rundown in the winter when there's no snow to lend its magic. The century-old trees look like craggy skeletons and the ground, barren and muddy, calls attention to every Sonic cup or PennySaver that the Oklahoma wind blows in.

Having moved last summer from a brand new neighborhood with well-kept front yards and trim, brick-line walks, I was beginning to feel depressed, but when I opened the blinds this morning I was greeted by unmistakable signs of spring.

The huge tree that hangs over the lane in front of our house is green! Over night, it seems to have come alive, its earlier brown leaves turning a bright young green, increasingly hiding its near-black, gnarly limbs. The little powder blue Nantucket cottage with the white trim and cobbled drive rests once again in the tree's shade. The large, meadow-like yards on this corner are dotted with bright yellow dandelions and tiny purple daisies, and fat robins in their red waistcoats shout from their perches.

Yesterday, when I went out to get the mail, I noticed new life sprouting in the flower pots on our porch's steps, and I'm planning to go out this weekend to get a few more flowers for other pots, as well as Morning Glory seeds to plant in the beds that surround the porch. I want it to be a bower this summer. In the bed that juts into the yard I'm planting old-fashioned Sunflowers and full-sun herbs like Rosemary and Sage.

This will be a good weekend to get the yards in shape, and then to sit on the front porch with tall glasses of sweet tea.

And I Say This Passionately

There's a current trend in writing that really annoys me. Everywhere you look online, there are sites dedicated to people telling other people how to write. No, wait, strike that. Make that people admonishing other people on how to write.

The content of these sites is mostly made up of rules and regulations, all of which only serve to rob the written word of its color and its blood, and to put pressure on writers to conform to a narrow model of what is and is not publishable in today's market. And that's a whole 'nuther issue which I broached in an earlier post, so I won't go into it again.

While I tend to agree with Mark Twain's advice on the use of the word 'very' ("Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very', your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be."), I'm damn loathe to obey people who instruct us to cut the very parts of speech that make our language an expression of our humanity.

The trick is to use these tastefully, not castrate the language entirely. That's the art of writing, after all. Isn't it kind of like telling a painter she or he can't use the color yellow? Tell that to Paul Gauguin, who painted yellow skies. And while you're at it, tell Mozart he can't use grace notes or trills. "Too many notes!"

It reminds me of how, all my life, my mother hammered it into my head that I can't wear red. "Redheads can't wear red," she told me over and over again. It became such a mantra in my youth that when I finally rebelled (as an adult, no less) and bought a red top, I felt more liberated--and terrified--than when I'd left Christianity.

Today I read the decree, "Adverbs should be eliminated from the written word."

Well, I respectfully disagree, and I close this entry with the following:

"It is a triumph," said Mr. Banks, laying his knife down for a moment. He had eaten attentively. It was rich; it was tender. It was perfectly cooked. (Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse)

"So you're awake? he said jubilantly. "What's the matter, are you sick?" (Henry Miller, Quiet Days in Clichy)

"That is all very fine," admitted Kamaswami reluctantly, "but you are in fact a merchant. Or were you only travelling for your pleasure?" (Herman Hesse, Siddhartha)

"Yes, yes," responded the dairyman indecisively. (Thomas Hardy, Tess Of The D'Urbervilles)

The Course of Right Action

I used to read the I Ching quite a bit, back when I was in my twenties and didn't yet know how to make important decisions. As I got older I learned that within each of us is a little radio antenna that tells us what we should do in any given situation. Granted, it's not always easy to detect the static, but it's there all the same. It used to be called a conscience, but few people seem to know they have one of those anymore.

The I Ching calls it, following the course of right action, but is quick to remind us that if we do so seeking reward or glory--or even good karma--we undo what we have done, that taking the higher road is always its own reward. It's not always profitable to do what we know is right and it's not always popular. It's certainly never easy when our egos or desires are at stake, but, yeah, it feels good. That's how we know we've done the right thing. It just feels good.

I don't toss the coins around anymore, but then, I've learned how to detect that little bit of static when I'm about to make a wrong decision. This weekend I found myself in this position and I'm happy to say I made the right decision. It doesn't matter what it was, it only matters that I feel wonderful. And, as I say, that's the true reward.

A Certain Feeling

So many times I go into writing a post unsure that I'll be able to explain something I'm feeling. This is one of those times.

It's a vague feeling that I forget about until I actually feel it and when I do feel it, it's so fleeting that by the time I try to write about it, it's gone.

Most of us have lived such transient lives that we never feel it. Or maybe I feel it sometimes and it's unique to me. Who knows? I felt it frequently in the other house we lived in because we were there for five years, but I haven't felt it in this house yet because we've only been here for eight months. It takes a while.

It's a feeling of belonging, of knowing where everything is, of being able to walk through the house late at night and not run into anything. It's not having to go on a major quest every time you need the duct tape, an important paper, the bottle opener. It's a feeling of being home, of being anchored.

I still feel like I'm in somebody else's house here. The roots haven't grown yet. I'm a person who grows roots like crazy, but now, I'm kind of afraid to because every time I do, they get yanked up and wither a little. Then they get stuck in some other soil and it takes them a long time to figure out if it's hospitable soil or not. It goes on a deep psychic level with me, not just that of new noises, new neighbors, new nooks and crannies.

Spring always gets me thinking about things like this, mostly because I always get homesick, not for California as much as the home I lived in since I was 17. And then it passes and I'm back to being content wherever I happen to be.

Yeah. It feels like that.

No Blue Meanies Allowed

Yesterday I was surprised when the postman delivered a package from my lifelong friend, Deni. I was expecting some essential oils she'd made, but I was NOT expecting this awesomely fab teapot cosy that she knitted for me. I was so jazzed!

When we painted our kitchen a light apple green I wasn't so sure I liked the color. Let's face it, I'm more a sage and ivory kitchen person. But when I had Nettl print this out for me, I put it on the wall beside the range, and it occurred to me that the wall color would be the perfect backdrop for a sort of Pepperland kitchen. Not too kitschy, but an understated mod cool. The tea cosy is a perfect fit! And Deni didn't even know my kitchen plans. How cool is that? Jeez. After all these years, I'm back to collecting Beatle stuff...