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“All those people on tv are getting paid to say that.” Just saying.
A certain amount of the Debate In The World is fallout, like in The Hobbit® movie where the big stone guys are throwing stuff at each other and our merry troop of dwarves and wizard and hobbit nearly get creamed by the rockfall. Authority figures are standing up in rows opposing each other and tossing sound bites at each other and people are lining up according to what stuck on them, or landed nearby, or was shiny and they picked it up, and everybody is yelling/cheering for the authority figure they’ve been kind of arbitrarily tagged by.
And remember, they’re getting paid to say that. In what currency?
There’s too much to know, to understand, forcing us to make a decision on incomplete information, and pick the authority figure that seems likely. Our movies, our public stories, are all Myths and Jungian archetypes now because Hello! There Are Rocks Falling From the Sky!, and we need a bigger umbrella Right. Now.
Even just stepping out your door is incredibly dangerous because you might get swept up in the stream that’s going by, carried off to slay a dragon living under a dead volcano.
I like my dragon, though. We go out flying when the weather’s right.
Yes I am in school and yes the level of stupid in 100-level classes is overwhelming. (I have to write an opinion piece on nuclear power. Fair enough, but I’m only supposed to write three paragraphs. I don’t think I can blow my nose in three paragraphs. Still, one must persevere.)
Anyway. Alongside the heart-stopping stress that is statistics, I’m reading all the crap in the world. Believe me, we suck. Okay; they suck. We’re all cool here.
But we still have Stevie Wonder.
Chair-dancing time! “I speak very, very, uh, fluent…”
There are people who want me there, and I could smoke pot. I think that would help my blood pressure.
(Speaking of said people, look at this picture! I just want to dive into it.)
So, online classes. The first thing they want you to do is Introduce Yourself Smiley Face Let Us All Be Friends! And I’m kinda not there, what with these people having these little tiny pictures and I can’t keep them straight, plus cranky and old. So, my intro paragraph to my remedial algebra class was maybe not so . . Good. We’ll call it maybe not so good.
Hello. I live in Ashland. I am older than, like, all of you put together. I’m an art history major, a field that has no need whatsoever for higher mathematics. There is a possibility that I might suffer from attitude. And sarcasm. I’m heavily blighted with sarcasm.
Yeah. Maybe not so good. I apologized, both in the discussion board and in an email to my teacher.*
Plus! For no apparent reason my English class is tied into Cengage! a company that filed for some level of bankruptcy last year, and you have to download an app (which I really resent) and even so, I can’t get to the syllabus, which, you know, is just a simple little word doc.
And now I’ve gotten distracted, and I can’t remember the end point of this rant, except blood pressure, and maybe it would be nice if it wasn’t so cold. I think the years of warmer winters have made me a wimp. I think I’ll just go downstairs to my art cave and practice painting. I got a thing I want to do. Or maybe write. There’s some things I want to write. Yeah, let’s get out of here.
And by the way, my horoscope told me to not mouth off. Oops.
* But I polled all my art teachers, and they all said there isn’t that much need for math, except stuff that I’ve been doing for like the last 50 years. Plus, $100 text. for a remedial class. Thank you so much.
I went to a good funeral this week. The service was simple; the songs and the text, the musicians and the singer and the pastor and Freda and everyone there and everyone gone woven together. Hardanger, maybe, or maybe lace, the empty spots part of the pattern. The flowers were white; not daisies but chrysanthemums and lilies and roses. I think it was the lilies that smelled so good; deep and powerful, full enough of spring and insistent life for you to pause, for a moment, there by the casket, inside away from the dark and the cold.
People were pretty much ready for this one, because Freda was A Hundred and Six Years Old. She lost her husband at 94, started forgetting her name in her late 90′s, lost the memory of her married life, lost the memory of her daughter, her granddaughter. Maybe she kept on for so long because she forgot what was supposed to come next, maybe it just never occurred to her.
She was old country, I suppose you’d call it. First generation born here, and Born Here Back Then. Parents come in from Germany, and a farming background. Natural talent in painting put aside, or moved on from, we don’t know; she kept her hand in with needle arts. All of the needle arts – tatting and crochet and knitting and sewing and masterful counted cross-stitch – maybe not embroidery, but I think I’m probably wrong with that. Big garden, canning, bread on wednesdays, working in the shop. Artisan is the word I’m using, people who connect with you some when they’re talking, but when you see them doing you see their whole being engage.
There was this story, about how she punched a 90-year-old guy. Course she was about that old herself, and like her husband said, “She never really liked him anyway.” Maybe some people don’t mellow, or maybe this is Not Aging Gracefully. Doesn’t matter; it was about a minute of her life and it’s funny as hell, and maybe it showed a big part of Freda but mostly I remember her turning away from some task or coming in to light in a chair or passing a bowl at the table with this brightness in her eyes, and a certainty in her step. She wore serious shoes, I remember. Or call them sensible, pragmatic; ready to do what needed to be done.
In the gray light at the graveside, while I watched the pallbearers and the people and studied the workings of the lowering ratchets, the scent came to me again from the flowers like a memory. We let the balloons go into the darkening sky, and let go of Freda, and moved back into the web of our lives.
Yes. Tempted to shout.
First thing: do you read Sinfest? I wish you would, because I can’t explain why today’s strip made me sob. And almost smile.
So, I’ve been feeling better for a few days now. Better, as in good. As in, I haven’t felt good like this for a long, long time. It’s still weird and scary; I actually am afraid of feeling good, because I might do too much and knock myself back down, which is why I took a nap this afternoon. I also stayed in my jammies all day, more or less; nightgown and leggings and sweater = tunic and leggings and sweater, doesn’t it? I told a friend about leggings, and leggings and nightgowns, and now she’s doing it. We’re considering having a pajama party at work one of these days. Because comfy.
No, there are no pictures. I love all of you, but it’s insanely cold out there. I thought about taking pictures of the living room floor, what with the cat carrier/hideout for playing kill, and the huge crumpled sheet of brown paper that is ever-so-slowly being shredded, and all the toys. My coat/vest combo fell off the coat tree, and Katniss decided that that was where she needed to sleep. So there it stayed, for a while.
You might call it messy; I call it agility training, walking around all the cat’s accoutrements. Some might call it crazy cat ladies; I call it good karma. Or, maybe crazy cat ladies.
As in: I’d have a lot less if I cleaned my house.
I found an excuse – actually two – for not caring at all about “Game of Thrones.” First one is titled Eight Deadly Words, subtitled “I don’t care what happens to these people.” Second one is “Darkness-induced Audience Apathy.” I actually kind of wonder about Arya and Tyrion, but not enough to go there. Also, the problem with the “I have no idea how long summer or winter will last, and so therefore science will not happen here.” The only adaptive technology that has happened in thousands of years is that Winterfell taps into an underground hot spring. Whoopie. Where, exactly, are the enormous stockpiles of food, enough to last through a winter of eight or ten years? Oh, I know. All those little farms that get burnt to the ground that everybody has a little sad about, and then moves on to kill somebody else.
It’s winter break; has been for ten days. Yes, I am bored. The art cave (my basement studio) is too freaking cold, and I don’t want to spend the money to heat it up (money, global warming, doing something just for me are you nuts? etc.) And I am so used to reading for a purpose that just reading seems frivolous, or something. So I’m alternating between philosophy books, and sketching out ideas, and thinking hard about printing dry-point without a press. I’ve ordered the ink. I have the acrylic. This will be a thing for a while.
Lino block print. “Russian Novels.”
I am amused.
Daughter loves movies and video games, maybe not in that order. And things, she likes things – as in we never ever get rid of anything. Ever. So she bought a DVD tower on Amazon. Fine, good, stuff off the floor, etc. It came in a cardboard box that is about five feet long and 30 inches wide and ten inches deep.
You should have seen Katniss’s eyes! Our kitteh loves cardboard! You can chew on it and walk on it and climb into it! Daughter brought the package in and had to hurry up and get the (10-inch-square, 40-inch-tall, half as wide as this) tower out of it so she could have it. So now we can’t throw the box out, even though it takes most of the floor space in the living room when it’s laying down. Because we live to make the cat happy.
Katniss’s artistic eye is such that she is compelled to lay at just such a certain angle across the stripes on my flannel sheets, when she isn’t curling up in the fleecy afghan. And her fur is soooo soft. I remind her at regular intervals what nice mittens she would make. I even signed up for Amazon Prime, so we could get her catfood shipped for free.
In return, our strange, sort-of feral kitty now goes so far as to rub up against our legs when she is hungry, and sometimes she lets us hold her, as long as it is both of us – one rubbing her belly and the other rubbing her ears.szzzzzzzzdaaaaaaaaasw
And as you can see, she walks across my keyboard, to prove – whatever it is that cats prove when they walk across your keyboard.
A book by Naoki Higashida, about living with autism;
“When you see an object, it seems that you see it as an entire thing first, and only afterward do its details follow on, But for people with autism, the details jump straight out at us first of all, and then only gradually, detail by detail, does the whole image sort of float up into focus. What part of the whole image captures our eyes first depends on a number of things. When a color is vivid or a shape is eye-catching, then that’s the detail that claims our attention, and then our hearts kind of drown in it, and we can’t concentrate on anything else. (pg. 59)”
I had a lot more copied out, but I want you to read it. Illuminating, maybe, is the word I want, except I’ve seen a lot of it. Maybe it’s like some pain that’s been bugging you and then somebody describes it and you go Yeah! Maybe I’m thinking you should read it, so you can see the straight up freaking all-out courage people on the spectrum have, to face the world every day – I don’t know. Words fail me. Maybe you should read it.