Today is finally a full day off where I have no obligations to anyone but myself. Phew! KEXP's 90.3 listener voted albums of the year plays in my ears (M83, right now.) Enjoying the amenities of wireless service at my neighborhood coffee shop and sipping something warm on this cold, wet Seattle winter day. I was thinking about my blog, this morning. Thinking about what topic I could investigate, on this lovely free day. Two percolate in my brain; dreams about Dana and giveaways on talk shows. Unrelated and vying for brain attention...

I woke up from a dream starring my sisters and my mom. Not all dreams stay with me after getting out of bed, but ones that involve Dana usually do; especially since I rarely have any dreams that involve her. I don't know how often she visits my dreaming life; since I recall so few times. She is always the same, though; frozen in time as an 18 year old. Her hair (which was long and thick dark brown--the kind I wished for as a child) is down, and she never speaks. I can speak to her, whomever else is in the dream can speak to her, and her response is always a quiet smile. She looks so happy to just be with us--I can see it in her eyes. They're sparkling and all this positive energy comes off of her. But we can't touch her.

I'm no dream interpreter, but even I can figure this one (and the others I've had like it) out. She's dead, so she can't participate, and she is in our hearts and minds, so we can see her and feel her presence, if not her physical self. Pretty much spend the rest of the day feeling blue and missing her after a dream like that.

So the talk show giveaways...you know what I'm referring to, right? All those Ellen, Oprah, Tyra, Tony and--I don't know of anymore talk show hosts--it's become a given that at some point during the hour long program, someone is going to get something. Don't let this list of shows fool you, I don't actually watch them all of the time. Rarely. Just often enough to get the gist of the spiel. Oh, yeah!!! And Martha does it, too. It's pure bazillion dollar craziness. I actually catch myself drifting into the day dream of "What if I went to a taping of ________'s show? What would she/he be giving away then? Could I be lucky enough to be there on the day of the great car giveaway? The spa package? The shopping spree?" This really happens inside my head. And, truth, I haven't any real interest in spending a vacation in Chicago, or LA, or New York and waiting in line to watch a taping of any one of those shows. Now, if I could get a ticket to see David Letterman, well that would be worth it. I would LOVE to get one of those big boxes of beef and the explodapop microwave popping corn (even though I don't own a microwave). But that's where I draw the line. Dave, yes. Oprah, no. Not that I have anything against the divine miss O. She's fine. She's obviously generous.

What I would like to know, is how much of this showering of free stuff is because the host wants to be generous and lovely to all those audience members who aren't multi-millionaires, and how much of it is pure publicity plugging? Some of both, I assume...but how MUCH of both? I caught an episode of the Tyra talk show and it must have been near some awards show because she was talking about all of the free stuff celebrities get when they go to these things. (Ahhhhh...The Shins representing the Live at KEXP album, number 35 on the countdown....number one--both the band and the radio station--in my heart....sigh....) She gives her gift bags of expensive perfumes, ipods, diamonds and watches away to her non-celeb family and friends. Well, today Tyra is going to give the audience a taste of the celeb life!!!!! Everyone gets a gift bag of goodies!!! Crappy silver earrings, an xm radio thingy bob that they have to buy a subscription to so that they can listen to Tyra's satellite broadcast, some kind of lotion (I think) and some socks? I don't really remember all of the "goodies" she gave away to her audience, but it was all about what she wanted to plug. Which, again, is the mixed message of generosity and self-serving promotion. Eh. Who am I to talk? I can barely manage to give a dollar to the countless homeless people I walk by every day.

Shawn had turned on Ellen's show, this morning, and that's what sparked the thought, because she was in the process of giving away Mariah Carey's new cd. And the audience goes wild! They can't believe their luck!

I avoid writing on this blog just like I avoid writing in my journal or finishing some writings that I started. Did I mention letters, too? Yeah. Easy to avoid them. I am a writing avoider. My excuses are vast and lame, and are interchangeable among the aforementioned creative outlets.

1. I don't have time.
2. I'm not really that interested in writing.
3. I don't have any talent for writing.
4. I'm too tired.
5. I don't have anything to say.
6. I'm boring.
7. Who would want to read what I write, anyway?
8. It's my life. I can waste it with Seinfeld reruns if I want.
9. I don't care about it.
10. I don't want to.

Wow, sort of my own Top Ten List, huh? Top ten reasons why Linnet is inconsistent, at best, with the writing thing. Only, if Dave were reading this on his show, I think I'd have to reverse the order, put the "I don't want to." as number 1. Good ole' Dave.

While I wait for my squash to bake (yes, I did come home by way of the grocery store, tonight. And, even though I'll be eating late just so that I make sure I eat the food I bought to prepare, I will be getting some vegetables and good-for-you protein. Hurrah me.) I force myself to sit at my computer and type this here blog. What's with me, anyway? I WANTED to start this blog. I TOLD people, three people--no, FOUR people--about it. This means that on a very obvious level, I have a desire to blah blah on my blog blog and for these words to be read and, possibly, enjoyed. It's supposed to be practice, in some way, to keep me active, creatively. At least, that's what I've been telling myself. hmmmmm...what is it really?

Is it, perhaps, ego? I've been on a where-is-my-ego-in-me? kick for a few days, now. An episode at work--poor decision making on my part--has prompted me to ask the question, "Why would I act in such a way, knowing that it was not in my best interest?". Occurred to me that the pervasive "I" and "mine" ruled over any other thoughts, at the precise moment the words "Of course we can do that for you." left my mouth. I KNEW that I hadn't the right to make that decision without first asking my boss. It was a gross trespass of her trust and respect towards me. Ugh. (This seems like a random segue from the beginning of this entry, but this is free form, right? Besides, there's a connection. Truly. At least I think it's connected. Yeah. It's connected. I continue.) Up until the other day, I really think that I was egotistical enough to believe that my actions were not ruled by my ego. Omigosh, am I an egotistical ass for simply HAVING that thought, or am I? Well, no more. I accept that ego is a part of my every day, and not just when I'm in headstand and suddenly think, "Holy crap, I got it!" right before I tumble to the ground. It is everywhere. Sometimes stronger than others, but it's there.

So...what to do....ummm, well, I haven't gotten that far. I'm still in these early discoveries, see? And I admit, I find it a touch depressing. Having to look at myself and notice aspects that I'm not proud of, and wanting to address them so that, at the very least, I can begin to evolve. I guess this is what we do as we get older, huh? Confront the demons we've been ignoring for 31 years?

What's For Dinner?

A fantastic yoga class, preceded by a day full of holiday shoppers making careful and sometimes belabored decisions between THIS particular necklace or THAT particular necklace makes for a hungry Linnet. Add to that such a busy day that by the time I ate lunch, I was past the point of hunger and ate only half of the sandwich I hastily bought at the next door coffee shop. Then the yoga...ahhhhhhh...yoga......and now home. First to be consumed, cold basmati rice. Just as a snack while I look in on the sad contents of my refrigerator. Next, a small glass of Organic Valley Eggnog--to wash down the rice, naturally. I sniff the remains of some Trader Joe's pesto tortelloni. Smells slightly odd, but maybe it's just a strong cheese mixed in with the pesto? After all, the use or freeze by date is two weeks away. Put some water on to boil for the tortelloni and eat an orange. (The first piece of fresh fruit I've eaten in a week. Pathetic, aren't I?) Pasta cooks, finishes, is doused with olive oil and parm cheese and bite number one. Bite number two...bite number three is a little too pungent for me. Not like I remember the tortelloni tasting when I ate it last week. Or was that two weeks ago? Can't do it. Once I believe something to taste off or stale or rotten, there is no convincing my taste buds, nor my stomach, that it could possibly be alright. Even if it is. Blech. Two slices of Genoa salami to distinguish the bad tortelloni lingering on my tongue. WHAT TO EAT NEXT?!! A bowl of frosted mini wheats? Well, that choice is in the hands of the milk--is it, like the pasta, a little off? I'm afraid to try so I will continue to type, instead.

All of these odds and ends of food are trying to tell me something, I am beginning to suspect. GO TO THE GROCERY STORE, LINNET. Please. I'm sure that my body is simply dying for a little leafy green vegetable with some red antioxident vegetables thrown into the mix, instead of into the garbage because I was too lazy to make them into a salad so they lay, decomposing, in my "crisper". I actually like to eat healthfully and well. I even like to cook, from time to time. And, I can so easily fall into the food pit of despair. I don't wanna think about what to make. Let's order pizza. Let's get pho. Let's go to Muy Macho. If my girlfriends/coworkers didn't generously bring me leftover casseroles, lentils and what have you, well, I'd be in the poor house solely from spending all of my money on crappy lunches from various eateries in the Market. Thank goodness for those nice ladies!

I shudder to think what I'd be eating if Shawn and I didn't, occasionally, decide we should buy the kind of groceries that you have to couple with other groceries to make an actual meal. I'm even sick of pizza, and I do love the Hot Mama's; especially reheated in the oven the next day. mmmmmm....pizza....or if I were single and left to my own lazy food devices. No top raman for me, but are udon noodles, tossed with sesame oil and hot pepper/garlic sauce really any better?

I am still here....

I know this may be difficult to believe, but I actually AM still here. I didn't even go anywhere. Though I've been avoiding my own blog for reasons unknown but suspicioned, I have been keeping up with the reading of others. I can certainly point to November as a technically difficult month--my computer had a hard drive failure as well as a virus--and work has been busy enough for me to not want to head in earlier than normal to use the computer. Now, I have a repaired pc (which is looking for a new home) and a new computer that is sitting on my lap, at this very moment. I made the switch, you see, and I am definitely happy about it. I think I'm not quite used to--omigosh. What am I writing? Do any of the one or three people who might accidentally come across these musings really want to read the blah blah blah blah boring blah of why I like this computer above another?

Maybe this is why I haven't really been contributing to my blog. I haven't anything to say. Or what I DO have to say is not really that interesting.

I have blogger blues...

Boo!

I bought a new game for the Xbox…Fatal Frame II. This is a very scary game. No kidding. The lack of constant music and noise, the inability to control exactly what you look at, the ghosts…it’s simply spine tingling. The character can either walk or “run”—a dainty little runner she is—and wriggle free from the clutches of the ghost. It has the look and feel of Japanese horror films. I have to play with a light on.

I’m not someone who has a natural affinity for video games. It takes me a while to get the hang of the rules (mostly because I don’t want to bother reading the directions, I just plunge right in.) And even when I’ve started to get a feel for how the game works, I’m not a skillful player. I can be stuck on one section for days and days and days and days…which is probably a good way to save money.

So, I’m only on Chapter 2 of this game (which basically means that I’ve only accomplished one task.) and I’m good and stuck. And because I’m a little creeped out by it, I can’t seem to spend long hours attempting to pass this level. I’m a ‘fraidy cat. Yuppers, I am.

1995

I’ve been reading another Sarah Vowell book, Radio On.  A year’s worth of her radio observations.  

Does anyone remember what was happening in 1995?  A lot.  O.J. Simpson’s murder trial, the Unabomber, Oklahoma City, Waco hearings, Jerry Garcia died—and to read Ms. V’s comments on that, well it just made me smile to know that I wasn’t the only one who held such views regarding The Grateful Dead—Bosnia, we had an intelligent, articulate and seemingly interested in where THIS country was heading president, Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh was having a heyday…And I’ve only gotten through September.

It’s been a succession of “Omigosh.  That happened that year?”  Followed by a visceral memory of where I was when I heard whichever news it was for that day.  A trip down 1995 lane...

The Birds is Coming, The Birds is coming!

Last night there was a free showing of The Birds at a large neighborhood theatre. The Egyptian. One of those exotic locale theme based theatres left over from the beginnings of Hollywood. I’m sure there’s one in almost every state. I think I’ll google that later on…just for kicks. There’s on in Boise, Idaho. Only it is not as big as this one. Not too long ago I saw a little extra on a DVD about an Egyptian theatre in Hollywood and that was a movie experience. Huge palm trees and elaborate décor on the outside. King Tuts and Egyptian maidens in bas relief . Very fancy. Someone was filming people coming and going in that slightly too fast jerky speed of the late teens/early 20’s.

Our palm treeless Egyptian is big, has been restored in the last 10 years, and plays midnight movies on the weekends, besides “Indie” films. (Are they really Indie when they still cost a lot of money to produce and are backed by major studios? Does it really matter, since they are are, generally speaking, better than the big studio releases?)

Back to the The Birds.

Tippi Hedren is supposed to be there, as well as Robert Osborne, the cheerful, knowledgeable host of Turner Classic Movies. And did I mention that this showing, hosted by the above mentioned folks, is free? Yes. Free.

I walk up the hill from downtown, where I work and arrive to see a not so bad line beginning to wrap around the theatre. The people in front of me are discussing whether or not they should be in this line or the other line. There’s another line? Yes. It’s for people who have a reservation. You had to make a reservation? I missed that instruction on the flier I’d seen. There is an hour before the program starts. I fast walk up to the entrance and see the other line and two signs. One pointing to those who have made the necessary call and checked in at the box office and the other for the likes of me. The “hopefuls”. I’m not kidding. That’s what they called my line. “The hopefuls” line. Sheesh. I get back in line, actually in the same spot I was in, go figure; plug into my static making mini ipod and wait.

I can't believe this. I lost the entry...I'd edited and rewritten and added links and everything. I thought I'd saved it. I haven't the energy to do it again...grrrrr...

Back to Seattle

Hola!  We have returned from Espana with sun tans.  No kidding.  I haven’t had a tan since I lived in Tempe, Arizona…ages and ages ago.  Perhaps if one of my digital camera toting friends e-mails me some photos, I will post some on the blog for all 3 readers to see.  Fantastic time was had by all.  We swam in the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean.  

September is a birthday month

First, I'd like to say "Joanna, I did not forget your birthday. I just haven't done anything about it that YOU can see. But wait...in a few days...voila!"

This really is a birthday month. My little brother, Jess, celebrated his 28th (I think) birthday on September 2. For most of August I thought about what I could send him. My mom mentioned that consumable goods would be most welcomed. Cans of tuna fish, cup-o-noodles and the like. Cup-o-noodles? Apparantly, the army food is so bad (What a surprise. What a cliche.) that dehydrated noodles and specs that resemble vegetable colors is considered highly prized gourmet cuisine. Great. I was going to be super fancy and get him some heat and serve presereved meals from Trader Joe's--they sell a not so bad dahl and other similar foods in foil packages. Shawn and I took some with us when we went camping, a few years back, and they were pretty good. Better than the freeze dried "camper's food" from REI.

September 2 came and went, so did the rest of September. I'd been to TJ's a few times, just to get a few essentials, like that damned greek yogurt that Ali turned me onto last time I visited her. Heaven to the taste buds, sigh. I was always in such a rush that I would leave without any items to send to Jess; I'd shop for him later, plenty of time. Today, as anyone can see by reading the date, is September 19. I have yet to mail anything to him, let alone a letter. However, I finally did buy him a gift to mail with a letter that I will write, before Wednesday. I panicked when I bought it. I know that he requested that we not send items that he'll have to take home (if he they let him come home when he's supposed to, in late fall.) but I was in a hurry and I have to mail this before I leave on my trip. Besides, I made excuses to myself, he'll like this. It'll be hours of entertainment. He's very interested in drawing and art and maybe even this genre of comic book. If he's not into it, yet, he will be!! Now, I have to call my mom and get that military address that forwards stuff to him. I have to call her every time I have a letter to mail, because I can never find that scrap of paper I wrote it down on. By calling my mother, I am openly admitting to her that I did not mail him something in time for his actual birthday.

Birthday number two belongs to Joanna. September 17. We've been friends since we were freshmen at Moon Valley. We had p.e. together. That is a very bonding experience. I'm only a couple of days behind on that one. Besides, I bought her a funny little gift before Saturday. I just haven't sent it.

Dana's birthday was yesterday, the 18th. Once September begins, that date is a constant in my thoughts. What would she be doing now? How old would she be? Where would she be living? She'd be a full on adult, by now. Possibly with a job or a husband or even a family. It's as if I think I have something to do--did I forget to turn off the oven?--and yet, I know that I didn't forget anything. There is no action to be taken, no gift to buy, phonecall to make. By the time the 18th actually comes along, I'm unprepared. I write the date on a sales receipt and am overwhelmed by the weightiness of those numbers. 9-18. I miss my little sister. It is as impossible to concieve of her absence, now, as it was when she died. It is bewildering that I can't call her to wish her a happy birthday. An incomplete sensation, like a kinesthtic reflex that is no longer necessary. I say "Happy Birthday, Dana." to the air, to the molecules that buzz around because that must be where she is now--or rather, where I like to think she is. A part of the Universe, of the air that we all breathe.

5, or 6, days until Espana!!!

Depending upon how you count. See, I wouldn't count today since it's mostly over and I don't count the actual day that we leave. Which makes it 5 days. Hurrah!!! I can't wait to put on the bikini and slather my Seattle white skin with spf 30 sunscreen and lay out on da beach! Or by the pool. I'm not really a lay out on the beach or by the pool kind of a gal, so we'll see how that works out. I've never done so in Europe--maybe it's more fun if it's a Spanish beach? Thank goodness for books, huh? And our group will have two cars, which means that if some of us, or just me, doesn't want to toast in the surf and sand, then some of us can do something else... Wanna see where we're living for two weeks? It's purty durn nice, I tell you what....

Speaking of books...what will I bring to read on this trip? I'm such a geek because I actually agonize over what that perfect reading material will be. I'm going to be in Spain. We have plans to go to a bullfight. What about Hemingway, you might ask. Well, yes. That is the obvious choice and I truly love Papa, but (isn't there always a "but"?) I want to read some stories I haven't already read on our excursion. My friend, Adam, recommended this one, and I have been thinking about this one, too, except that I own it in hard cover and that's kind of bulky when you're trying to pack light. Shawn and I talked about bringing one of my all time favorite books to read together, since he's never read it and I love it so much that I'm just looking for any excuse to read it again and again and again. (And we're goofy enough to like to read aloud to one another.) Doesn't solve the issue of what I will bring for myself. For the plane rides, I definitely like to have the easy, leave-it-at-the-hotel-apartment-airport-when-I'm-done, novel. She's good for this, as is she. Easy to digest and a little thrilling, too. Yum. However, for the duration, the relaxing by the pool/on the beach option...well, I'm still stuck.

I'll take suggestions. I'm a sucker for the classics, too. Perhaps I can bring one classic and one contemporary? Ah-ha. I think I'm onto something.

My knowledge of current fiction is woefully slight, because I have what I would call a natural suspicion of any books recommended by Oprah (though I absolutely applaud her efforts to make reading books fun and cool and an every day part of the culture. Keep it up, Oprah!) or the New York Times best seller lists. Or by people that used to work in the same cubicle row that I worked in way back when I worked for a corporation of cubicles. Not to be trusted. They liked this book. Need I say more? (Okay, I didn't read the whole thing. I skimmed it. I wanted to make sure that if I was going to mock this book, that I'd actually, at the very least, perused it. My mom read the whole thing and gave me the gist of what I might have missed because I didn't read every single word. I trust my mom. She has good book sense.) I look to good friends to tell me great reads of "new" books. And then I think, "but I haven't read such and such or so and so and they're in the CANON!!!!!!" Yes. The canon. Can't you hear the Orffian choir in the background when you think about it? The reverence that I carry for this man made entity leaves me frozen with indecision, often as not, when it comes to choosing a book. Sad or no, I am someone who is impressed by that kind of institution. I have a reading list from high school, books that most colleges assume you have or will read by the time you graduate. I look at lists like that and get all giddy and my heart rate goes up and my palms get sweaty. Which of those books have I already read? Omigosh! Which ones have I neglected? How could I have missed that one!!!! I like to check them off. This is one of those embarrassing secrets we try not to tell to anyone, as it will most likely be used against me later. Once, I downloaded a recommended reading list from some website that talks about literary theory. Can't even remember what it was or why I was looking at it, or even where that list went. I just recall feeling a slightly crazed excitement when I saw the list--there were titles on there that I hadn't seen before! What can I say? I like to get all of those literary references that really smart people talk about. It's more fun to actually know--for me, it is--than to nod and smile and pretend that I know. (Come on. You've done it, you know you have.)

Today, Apple is not my friend

I just spent the last thirty minutes reading 40 or so Ipod Mini complaints on Apple’s website. Very disheartening and frustrating, as I have one of those mini’s and am experiencing the crackling static distorted sounds that were the subject of aforementioned complaints. And what are we left to do? Suck it up, basically. And, since the mini is basically obsolete, having been replaced with the Nano…well, it smacks of abandonment and underhanded business tactics. Why would I be surprised? This is, after all, Corporate America, where unaccountability is encouraged and rewarded.

The solution to the problem with my mini is to buy a new Ipod, or send it in for a $200 fix. Ummm…gee, that seems fair…puh-leeze! Stinky poopy heads at Apple. They should be ashamed. Really.

Oh, yes, I’m a sucker. Because of course I want to buy the new Nano, it is so small and cute and slick-sleek; and i would most definitely get the black one. Am I such an idiot to consider purchasing a product by a company who doesn't give a hoot about the flawed product I bought from them over a year ago? There is no need to answer that--I'll do it for you. Yes. I don’t have any extra funds, which is probably a very good thing, and will keep me from making a totally ridiculous impulsive purchase since I’m annoyed almost daily with my mini. Crackle, crackle, snap, crackle, smack, clear sounds. That’s the routine. If I give the click wheel a tap, it usually stops, until it is bumped again, at which time I give it another tap. grrrrrrrrrrrr…..What’s a girl to do? I completely buy into Apple’s marketing. I do. I admit it freely. DESPITE the crap with the mini. It is no wonder that companies get away with their sneaky, often unethical practices. We’re all suckers.

If I leave my Xbox on all night, is it going to blow up?

O the important things in life, no? Ugh.

Yesterday, at work, I received a phone call. It wasn’t for me, personally, it was for whomever happened to answer the phone, being the only person there, that fell to me.

“Hi. You don’t know me, but my name is _____ _____, and I’m a victim of Hurricane Katrina.”

Pause. The inner cynic is quick to awaken. Is this going to be a scam asking for money? What am I supposed to say?

“Hi. Oh. I’m sorry for your—how are you?”

“I’m in Texas and I’m trying to find a job. I’m wondering if y’all are hiring.”

I splutter for a second, because I want to be kind and also honest—honest = no job.

“Well, we’re a very small store and we are fully staffed. However, if you are able to fax or e-mail or mail a resume, I’m sure the owner would be happy to see it.” I feel completely stupid. “Sometimes we need someone to fill in, and it’s possible that if you meet with her, and you’re a fit for the shop, we might call you in once in a while?”

“I’ve already given you my resume.”

“Ummmm…well, how long ago?”

“Five years ago.”

“Oh, errr…uh, we wouldn’t have it anymore. Can you send us a new one?”

It goes on like this for about ten more minutes; she explained how she would be perfect for our store and how she’d be coming to Seattle, because that’s where her husband’s family live. The whole time I am awash with guilt, and then irritation at my guilt and then confusion. What am I supposed to say to this woman? Because she’s had a major upheaval and tragedy in her life I feel, suddenly, responsible to her to help and yet it’s not my position to hire people, we are fully staffed, besides dealing with a slow economy in a business that pretty much relies on people feeling like they can splurge. Not to mention the fact that we really would need to meet with her and see if this is the kind of job for her. It was awkward and sad and I felt like such a heel by the time we’d hung up.

Like many people, I watch the devastation on television, read about it in the newspapers and online articles and shake my head for lack of anything to say. What can I say? Screw you FEMA? Nice work leeching the funding for levy improvement? Bush is completely out of touch with the country, I told you so? Yes. I can say all of those things, and no, it doesn’t make me feel any better. As if I’m the one who needs to feel better. Gross. Nothing like a horrific tragedy to remind one how small one is…sitting over here, on the opposite side of the states, I feel relief that my family members are all safe. “Thank goodness Jess is over in Iraq and not on some special field training in Louisiana. Phew!” (He was, once, before he got shipped out to Iraq, again.) “Good thing Holly is in Florida where they get an immediate disaster relief response to hurricanes, just in case a big one should hit there, I mean.”

Here’s my favorite photo op, thus far. Can we all say “gross”?

A few linnets later...

Happy Labor Day! Since I am at work, I thought I'd take a little break and labor at the google image option. Here are the fruits born from my intensive research...different linnets!





This one is a Yemen Linnet. Purty.








A popular name for ships, apparantly...













Someone in Great Britain made this from scratch.








Wow.








This wasn't my birthday, and it sure looks like it was a fun one! Maybe someone will make me a pretty birthday sign this year? Any takers? Anyone?

Karma Chameloen II, sigh

I’m still on the Karma question.  I guess it’s not a proper noun, though, so I don’t have to capitalize it.  Only, it’s one of those words, like “Time” when used by poets of yesteryear and Shakespeare.  Well, since it’s such a hot topic for me, and since I’m completely obsessed with it today, it’s getting the capital “K” treatment.  

I have more to add, because I had the good fortune to talk to a Buddhist about Karma, yesterday afternoon.  Someone I met, recently, who I didn’t know was a Buddhist.  It just hadn’t come up.  He agreed with my assessment on the whole “Karma’s a bitch” deal.  And, more importantly, reminded me that what occurs in this lifetime is the Karmic happenings of your actions in your past lifetime(s), the one(s) that you don’t remember.  

O.

This made me cry.  It makes me cry, now; and if I can’t get past it is going to become yet another ugly monster of despair for me to wallow in whenever I am feeling particularly blue or wronged in life.  

I started to think about my family.  The death of my little sister, Dana.  The Jerkiness of my Father.  My little brother over in Iraq.  These painful, scary events in our lives—according to my new-ish understanding of reincarnation and all the Karma that goes with it, we actually did something to warrant these events.  What horrific act did we participate in to have to lose such a lovely, vibrant sister?  It’s overwhelming and I haven’t the writerly skills to express what a heavy burden I felt, feel, contemplating the possibilities of this.  

The Buddhist also reminded me--and I haven’t been able to get to this point, yet—that the purpose of this life is not to dwell on what wrongs you may have committed in the past, but to live your life in such a way as to not cause harm to others or yourself.  And to do this because you want to, not because you think it’ll make it better for you later.  Tragedy is to be embraced.  (I wish I could recall his words, exactly, because he put it very well.)  You embrace it because it is an opportunity for you to learn and grow from the experience, meanwhile not discounting the grieving or the difficulty of the tragedy.  

This is all very general, I know.  I probably shouldn’t even be writing about it, because I might be giving a misconstrued impression.  I don’t fully understand this system of beliefs.  I know very little of it.  I don’t even know if I subscribe to it.  I can understand how non productive it is to go around feeling responsible for Dana’s death in a Karmic sense.  A downward spiral that can only lead to ugliness, really.  Dana knew we loved her.  And, if she’s a spirit somewhere, or another being or just dust particles in the atmosphere, she knows we love her and miss her.    

For my family I wish us goodness and love.  It seems like we’re on the right path—except that Father guy, he done gone wrong—and perhaps in our next life together, we will bring this goodness and love with us and it will expand beyond us forever into every life after.  

Testing...1,2,3...Testing

I’m trying out this new way of writing my blog…on Microsoft word. I think this’ll be better for, me, since my computer keyboard has a mind of it’s own and decides when and where certain keys will function. The nice folks over at Dell told me that I probably have some kind of virus that infected my keyboard and the only way to fix it is to return my computer to the days of it’s birth. Or, rather, to wipe out all memory of anything it’s accumulated since I first got it. That’s a lot of music files that I don’t think I’ll be able to recoup. Not worth it. I’d rather wait it out and buy a new Imac—though that’s probably a year, or so, down the road.

Karma Chameleon

Karma. Kamma. Yesterday, I thought about karma--it'd been brought up in conversation. Later, Shawn and I went to our favorite Thai restaurant, and while waiting for a seat (it was a very busy night, for our little Thai eatery) we noticed a stand of pamphlets on the bar. Free. Take One. Leave a Donation. These little books are messages by Buddhadasa Bhikkhu. Once again, I thought about Karma. And guess what, amid the 4 or 5 booklets was "Kamma in Buddhism". My donation made, I took the book and we perused it while we waited for our dinner. Ask and the universe will provide, huh?

So, prior to looking at this message from Mr. Bhikkhu, here were my preconceived ideas about Karma (or Kamma) culled from pop culture, yoga classes, other people, reading other people's versions of, and random definitions that somehow made it into my head without my notice.

1. Karma is what you get when you do something bad.
2. Karma's a "bitch"
3. Karma is the great leveler
4. Some people will go through life never having to answer for their mis-deeds
5. Who am I to judge who should have their comeuppance and who shouldn't?
6. George Bush will have to come to terms with himself, someday, whether the world sees it or not
7. It's probably not a good idea to wish bad on those that have made you mad or hurt you, because isn't that the same thing?

There's more I can add to the list, but these are a few of the thoughts I had during the day, before taking the "Kamma in Buddhism" booklet. Sleep not coming easily, last night--might have had something to do with the double latte I'd consumed around 7pm--I thought about a few of those aforementioned ideas surrounding my understanding of Karma, and the little bit of information gathered from the booklet. First of all, I immediately determined NEVER to use the phrase "Karma's a bitch" again. To be honest, it's not really a phrase I've often used as I am not fond of the word "bitch" since it has derogatory implications regarding women. And really, Karma a bitch? I don't think so. If Karma is simply a result of action taken by an individual, then it's just what it is. There's a chance that the individual won't like the outcome, but, hey, maybe you should have thought about that before you stole that candy bar from the corner store and then got sick from too much sugar? Karma isn't to blame for what happens in your life. To say that it's a bitch is to say that the results of your action are going to be served up to you by a vengeful, nasty, spiteful, overbearing, female spirit or however you'd envision Karma to look. I don't think that Karma is spiteful. That sort of defeats the purpose, right?

Why do we need to know the essence of Kamma? Because our lives are inseparable from it and happen according to it. To be more precise, we can say that life is actually a stream of kamma. Wanting to do something (kamma, action) causes one to perform actions and receive the results of those actions; then, desires to do other actions arise again and again incessantly. Therefore, life is merely patterns of kamma.

The clearly defining words of Buddhadasa Bhikkhu.

Looks to me like Karma's job isn't to judge our actions. This probably means that it's not my job to judge whether or not someone else ought to get a bit of their own karmic comeuppance. A frustrating thought, since there are plenty of powerful people in this world who continue to get away with, quite literally, murder and do so without any seeming consequences. One wise soul mentioned to me that such people have to live with themselves and we have no idea what that may be like for them. Ahhhh...if only I could take comfort in that thought. Well, maybe I can. Ultimately, I am responsible for me. I can make choices in my life and my behavior towards others that can reverberate through the universe. Wishing ill on others, even people that haven't done much to earn any kind of respect from me, is just another way of making "bad" karma. Wishing that they find peace in their own souls and can rise above their selfish, harmful acts might be a better road to take. I don't know, yet. I'm not enlightened enough to let go, so easily. I think that I want to be. It's a lot of work to hold a grudge; takes a lot of energy that is best served elsewhere. And yet--this is a whole 'nother can of worms--holding onto anger and hate and fear is how some people feel alive. If you're so used to that kind of drama in your life, and you constantly seek it out, I'm sure it can feel empty when you don't have it. It's not really emptiness, it's just different than what you are used to. To a degree, I am sure that most of us have that tendency. Is this related to karma? I think it is, and I haven't gotten all the connections just yet. I am typing out loud, here. On a discovery of unformed ideas that haven't had a chance to percolate in my brain...still grinding the coffee, so to speak.

But this blog is done, for the day. The topic isn't, and who knows when or if it will be revisited for my few readers...funny side note, at the end of the "Sopranos" episode that we watched, last night, a Mafia killing occurs. Surprise, surprise, I know. Anyway, the guy comes up to a man and a woman in a car--which, by the way, was just starting to pull out of a parking spot--shoots the man and the woman which causes the now dead man to take his foot off of the brake and the car roles over the shooter's foot before banging into the car parked in front of it. We looked at each other and laughed, "Now that's karma," says Shawn.

At long last

Well, some questions regarding Season 4 have been answered. Frankly, it's a load off of my mind. Phew. And tickets to Espana have been purchased. All is well in blogland.

Sorry I haven't written...

I've been consumed with that mob show I talked about, last week. It's taking over my free time. We've gotten to the middle of the 4th season, and only been interrupted by a wedding (fantastic and lovely event at Mt. Rainier) and a paella dinner, last night. It's probably good, this little break. Gives us the opportunity to really take in what we've seen, thus far, and speculate about who will not make it to the 5th season. Will it be Ralphie? Or--and this is terrible to root for on so many moral and ethical grounds; but that's what mob shows do to you, cause you to root for the worst of the bad guys, and to even find justifications for doing so--will it be that annoying, untrustworthy fake sister of Tony's. Ugh! I can't stand her! When Janice first entered the story, we both wrote her off as a so-so actor and were so relieved to be rid of her, or so we naively thought. Then, when she came back to Newark, it was all either of us could do to not throw our chocolate candies at the television screen whenever her face came on. Now, however, both of us have expressed doubt as to our initial impressions of her talent, or lack thereof. Maybe, just maybe, she is actually so prodigiously talented that that is why we have such hostile feelings towards Janice, the character. If she weren't good at playing the resident manipulator, then we probably wouldn't give a flying fig newton about her screen time. Her presence would be the perfect opportunity to unwrap the foil from the chocolate, or take that sip of water, or sprinkle those red pepper flakes on the slice. One wouldn't even need to pause the DVD while she spoke, one could simply get up to refill the water glass. I don't know...the jury is definitely still out on her...I'll get back to y'all.

Not that I'd want to be in that family

The last few months have been spent trying to catch up with the rest of the HBO watching world. Neither of us have cable, so any of those shows that were such huge successes and have either ended, or are ending this season, went unwatched by both of us. I did my fare share of marathon viewings of the girl one, and lately we've been watching the death one, only to be completely distracted by the mob one. So far, the mobsters have it. It must be that inexplicable fascination with the underworld of gangsters ala Al Capone. As if we really know so much about that world, other than what is gleaned from the sensationalized stories and photos that you see from time to time. Remember when he took us on an exclusive tour of Capone's hideout? I can't remember if it was on network television, or A & E. I do remember being totally titilated at the thought of seeing some kind of gruesome discoveries as Geraldo is the first to reveal this murderous icon's very own cave dwelling. It was a cave, wasn't it? And what was in it? Nothin'. Zilch. Well, mildew, I suppose. And some mucky muck on the floor. But not from blood and guts, just dirt and water mixed with age. This did not deter our investigative reporter from trying to make it as exciting as if he'd found the remains of Capone enemies mixed with some damp green backs rather than the mud. It was, ultimately, a non-story.

What is it about the Mafia that fascinates us? (It is US, or Hollywood wouldn't continue to make movies and television shows about it.) How many bad Mafia influenced made for t.v. movies have I watched? More than once? We did have cable when I was in high school, so I got to see lots of repeats of bad shows; like that one with Melissa Gilbert and Joe Penny (who, coincidently, was on a couple of episodes during season 2.) Lucky, lucky me. Like most people I know, I love "The Godfather" I & II and despise III. Today, to my surprise, I discovered that there was a IV--made for t.v.; I am out of the loop. Predictably, "Goodfellas" is another fave. But these people, these anti-heroes, are murderers and cheats and liars and thieves and I, we, root for them. We want them to succeed and pump that other guy fullalead. Ick.

Of course, it's all about rationalization. This Mafia guy's story has unfolded for us. We get to see the softer side of Michael Corleone. You know, where he's wining and dining Kay, or hugging his children, or worrying over his father after an attempt is made on the Don's life. And let us not forget his picturesque walks in Italy as he courts that nubile beauty. He's just a family guy, really. If "The Godfather" had been made into a television series, I think we'd even get to have more sympathy (that's a relative term, mind you.) for Michael. Like with Tony. His main concern is that of his family. That family happens to extend to the other men in his organization, which illustrates to the viewer just how loyal he is to those that deserve it, and even to some that don't. Now, how can you dislike that? Who else offers you $50,000 when one of the "uncles" acts out and tries to run you over because he's trying to make a point, and leaves you a possible paraplegic for the rest of your life? That Tony, he is one stand up guy. He's got his worries, just like you and me. So his job is a little questionable, at least he takes care of his own, yeah? And is trying to become a more in touch, sensitive, truer individual. Right?

Violence isn't a tactic that appeals to me in the problem solving arena. However, in the fantasy world of television, movies and books, it is most often justified in a way that we can live with in order to continue to care what happens. If it is mob related, then so much the better. Gosh. That's kinda sick. Well, onward to season 3.

I feel the need, the need for speed...

I got some new shoes a couple of days ago. hee hee hee. They make me think of Spiderman and are so light and comfortable. I am super fast in these shoes, I just know it. Vroom-Vroom shoes. I wore them out when we went to the lake to watch these guys practice their super fast flying moves, yesterday. See? Super fast shoes. Super fast jets. I think there's a connection somewhere...

Every year, they come to Seattle for Sea Fair, and every year I hear various thoughts on what that means. Well, what it means in a political sense. Especially since the start of the war in Iraq. When those jets fly into town you hear people bemoaning the showboat techniques of the military and grumble about what their presence really means. As well as hearing all about how great it is that they come, it's one of the best annual events that occurs in Seattle, etc., etc., etc. It's easy for me to forget that those navy blue planes with their yellow stripes are actually representative of the U.S Navy and Marine Corps. Is this wrong? Does it bother me just a little bit? Yeah, I have to admit that it does. But that noise. That speed. That force. I am in awe of a man made object that can go so fast and execute uniform, simultaneous, crazy topsy-turvy maneuvers. I get caught up in the excitement of it. It's fun to watch them. Heck, I love the sound more than anything. And the way that it vibrates off of everything around. You hear that broken sound barrier noise, and suddenly, regardless of whether those planes are in sight or not, all heads zip upward and search the skies for them. Doesn't matter if you disagree with what they stand for, ultimately--which, sad to say, is not the celebration of "Fun"--one cannot help but look.

Politics are on my mind, it seems. There's another blog out there, written by a woman who shares my same name. Can you believe it? Well, I'm sure there are others, too...but this woman's blog is all about politics. And she's savvy. Oh, yes. She knows what's goin' on in the world and has opinions. I can't remember what her blog is called, but I know that if you google "linnet", you'll see her come up, a lot. (Yes, I have googled myself. And who hasn't?) The point is that if you want to read about Linnet's views on the political state of our world, I'd suggest reading the other Linnet. THIS Linnet is just on a military kick, right now, because of the Blue Angels and the war and my little brother's upcoming birthday, which will be spent in Iraq. And the struggles of balancing what I know to be a travesty with the knowledge that my little brother is a part of it, because he signed up for it. Whether he likes it or not, he feels he has to toe the party line. (Or is that tow the party line? Both make sense, if you think about it...) Am I angry with my brother? No. He was ripe for recruitment, unsure of his life options. One of those young kids who signs up in a time of relative peace, hoping to get some GI Bill money and maybe get posted to Germany, so that he can boast of having been stationed "Overseas" for awhile. So, with those speedy jets flying around I am reminded of how worried I am and what supporting the pageantry of the schtick truly means. Is it possible to separate the two? Obviously, it's possible to convince oneself that they can be separated, but what does that really mean you're telling yourself? It would be the same as taking a stand against big tobacco and then buying stock in Phillip Morris because that company has other interests besides just cigarettes. For instance, Kraft Singles. And if you like Kraft Singles and don't like the culture of tobacco, then you probably have to tell yourself a similar story about why buying the fake cheese is alright and why enjoying the Blue Angels is also alright,too. I don't like fake cheese, but I do like those planes.

O, Life!

Reading is cool.

In the wee hours of the morning, I finished reading this book, and was left with a sense that I do not know nearly enough about anything. At all. I am embarrassed at my lack of knowledge concerning the history of this country as well as the current state of affairs. I don't mean that I don't know what is happening, vaguely, with politics and the war and lies and cheating and that Lance Armstrong won the Tour, again, and is retiring. But I am more apt to do a brief once over of the NY Times headlines while I stand in line to get my coffee than to actually, heaven forbid, read an article--except the arts section. The moveon.org emails that come to my hotmail address, pretty much daily, go unread. Prior to the last election, sigh, I read every e-mail they sent and dutifully signed electronic petitions. Now, I check mark them for deletion without even opening them. Ugh. I just admitted that, out loud, so to speak--er, type, I mean. In her book, Sarah Vowell describes actually weeping as she joins in the singing of the National Anthem at the 1st Bush, Jr. Inauguration.

"Either you beamed through the ceremony with smiles of joy, or you wept through it all with tears of rage."

She is a true patriot, one who bothers to learn what this is all about, take action to change it and still recognizes and loves that this is the place where she can do it, despite the fact that it is so disastrously messed up right now. Read this book. Especially if you, like me, are often conflicted about how to articulate the love of a country that is acting like a big fat jerk and making life very, very painful for a lot of people in a lot of places. I don't want to walk around carrying my head in shame, and it's awfully difficult to hold it up, somedays--heck, most days.

My mom and I took a trip to Paris, this past spring. This was her first time out of the country-- unless you count that one day we went up to Vancouver and looked for a prom dress for my baby sister who wanted to have a dress that was different from everyone else's at Filer High School, but not too different. Just bought in a different country different. She, my mother, described to me comments made by various people in her home town that dealt, mainly, with curiosity of why you would want to visit a place occupied by those awful French people who didn't want to help kick Iraq's ass, or concerns that we would be pummled with baguettes the moment that we opened our very American mouths. And this is not just a product of small town-ism, either. I heard people in my big ole' little city express similar crazy ideas. I'm not afraid to travel. I love to travel. Especially outside of the borders of the U.S. of A. I see it as my duty to visit cities that might view all Americans as braggarts and loud mouths who complain about not getting enough, if any, ice in their sodas; or the waiters not stopping by their table every two minutes to ask "How is everything?". I want to be the ambassador of good will and When-in-Rome savoir faire. When I depart the bistro, having made my feeble attempts at conversing, or at the very least ordering in barely passable French, I want that waiter to say to himself, "Ahhh. Zat iz ze kind of americaine zat I like to see."

We had a great time, my mother and I.

I am now preparing to take another journey, in a couple of months. This time to Spain, to share a house for two weeks with several friends. (I know I sound like a jet setter right now, but these trips have come out of lots of toil, peanut butter sandwiches, a little credit card debt and making my own coffee almost every morning. Except when my sweet boyfriend says, "Let's go get coffee", which is code for "I'll buy you coffee and a donut, too, if you like." See? Sweet.) Once again, I look on this trip as an opportunity to spread the good word that many people residing in the United States are not complete ignoramuses. There are plenty of folks who really love the world. The possibilities of experiencing something completely new and out of their element. I'm really excited about this gift.

I'm not trying to fool myself into believing that by simply taking an airplane across the ocean and being respectful is the only way I can participate in helping to get the U. S. back it's good name. There are oh so many other avenues. And most of them take place on this side of the ocean. I was inspired by Ms. Vowell. I want to be more informed. I can choose to be. It's not even that hard, the internet makes reading local and national politics a breeze. From so many angles, too. One might even be able to glean the actual story by piecing together the various accounts and biases. Hmmm...what a thought...

That will be all for tonight, my children. I am now stepping out from behind my pulpit and turning on Letterman. He's all about current events, right?

It all started in Kindergarten

My first day of Kindergarten was actually the second day, due to my unfortunate luck of getting the stomach flu on the official first day of school. Walking into class on the official day number two was my introduction to that awful experience of being the new kid, even though I was well known to a good third of my classmates. I lived in a very small area, not even a town, with a lot of other farming families. We knew each other from church and community potlucks on the 4th of July. My cousin, Nathan, was the same age and lived down the road from my house. And yet, I was a complete stranger when I walked into the classroom, pencil box filled with my school supplies in hand. Along one wall was a shelf divided into little cubby holes with names, written in fat black marker letters on construction paper, indicating where we would be stowing our belongings. I couldn't find my name. There was this one empty cubby with the letters "Lynette" written on it, but I knew how to spell my name and that was not it. The teacher must have forgotten to give me one, since I hadn't been there on the first day.

And so it began. The life long battle of Linnet v. Lynette. It's not my fault, honest. My family never called me Lynette, it was always Linnet, for as long as I can remember. Even my mom told me that they barely called me by my birth name, because it was too weird. She'd named me after a good friend and just couldn't get used to looking and me and saying the name "Lynette". I spent every year up until college explaining to every teacher that I ever had that even though it may say "Lynette" on my official paperwork, I prefered to be called "Linnet" and I would refer to myself as such. In sophmore English class I was reprimanded by Mrs. Hoff for not bubbling in my proper name on standardized tests. She actually took the time to re-bubble my name when I forgot, which was pretty much every time. What a nice lady.

The other battle is the pronunciation game. "Hi, I'm Linnet." "Lynette?" "No, Lin-it". "Oh, La-nette". "Sure, whatever."

It's my own fault. I get tired of going back and forth and never getting the correct sound. So, by college, I gave up. I didn't feel confident enough to explain the name thing to all of my professors, and even though I still called myself Linnet, and even introduced myself as Linnet, I didn't try to correct anyone. Four years of my life I spent cultivating some lasting friendships with people who know me as Lynette. I never got used to it, though. I still have friends that call me Lynette and it sounds so odd, foreign. Like an ever so slightly out of tune chord strummed on a guitar.

I knew people in college who changed their names half way through. Like from David to Scott. Why? Some might accuse me of attempting the same switcharoo, but in my own defense, I was never Lynette, not really. People in the theatre department changed their names because someone else in actors equity or SAG already had their name. They were just getting used to the possibility that they may have to change. At least, that's what I assumed. I never changed my name, not in my mind. I have always been, will always be Linnet. It is an unusual name, and I believe that people don't hear it the way I say it because it's foreign to the ears. So their brain goes immediately to the sounds that are similar, and familiar. It is a rare day that someone actually repeats back to me "Linnet".

Wanted to clear that little mystery up for anyone who might be wondering, and find themselves reading my ramblings.

Sarah Combs, where are you?

I didn't know that amazon had a "wish list" and that I could actually search for names of people that I think I might know. Actually, I had heard of such a thing, I just hadn't explored its possibilites until today. Wow. I looked up names from the far reaches of my past relationships. I was particularly curious about a certain someone that I often wonder about. One Sarah Combs--a girl that I went to high school with, whom I considered a good friend, and haven't talked to since she got mad at me and two other friends for going to lunch without her. That was it. The end. She sulked the rest of our senior year and no matter what we tried to do to get her to talk to us she wouldn't budge; we were dead to her. I don't think we even spoke at graduation. The sudden end of, what I had considered, a close friendship has haunted me. Probably because I knew, even back then, that there was a way to repair the damage, if only I would make the effort. Which I didn't. Because I was a brat and tired of her tantrums.

Well, the name, Sarah Combs, is as old as the Mayflower. I have googled her. I have thought about her. I have dreamt about her. And today, I entered her name into the wish list search engine. About 15 Sarah Combs's Wish Lists came up. Was she the Sarah Combs with the mad desire for a Sony Playstation Dance Pad? Or, perhaps, she had just had a baby and wanted that list of children's picture books? I try to imagine the teenage Sarah, wanting to fit in and sitting on the periphery of the giggling and--was this by choice or did we push her out there?--as the grownup Sarah, catching up on her Barbara Kingsolver reading, or wanting to know about teenage angst. Does she have children? I know she went to the University of Arizona. Did she graduate? What in? It is a strange sensation to want to know, for more than 10 years now, where this woman is and to feel helpless in locating her. Sensation? No, it is bordering on obsession, I realize. WHERE IS SARAH COMBS? Why do we have the power of Google if it can't answer all of our "Where are they now?" requests?

Music Lessons

I am trying to listen to music like I did when I was a teenager. Buy the record--or in my case, tape--listen to it from start to finish over and over again, and read the liner notes. Cd's have changed this experience for me, and now, what with itunes and all, i'm stuck on shuffle and skip. I wouldn't say that I was a particularly knowledgeable person when it comes to music. My boyfriend is. We were listening to a song, can't remember what, and it was nearing the end. They lyrics were about something not finishing, and he said, "Hear that? He didn't finish the insert technical guitar playing jargon here, just like the story." I replied, "Oh." I didn't know that that was happening. And, of course, the musician fully intended for that to happen. I'm sure of it. Not knowing didn't diminsh my listening pleasure. Knowing heightened Shawn's. I'm not saying I'm going to take a music theory class and begin to listen to music with an ear towards technique. I'm still happy to listen to music with the mindset of simply enjoying what I'm hearing. AND I'm going to take the time to listen to the album, beginning to end, because there is a reason for the placement of songs. Even I, with my lack of musical know-how, can figure that out. Shuffle's great. I love it. Sometimes it reminds me of music I haven't chosen to listen to in a long while. "What's that song?" "I have that album?" Encourages exploration so that I can sit down--lay down, fold laundry, attempt the crossword puzzle--and listen to that long lost album from start to finish. A healthy combination of listening experiences.
I'm also going to avoid the whole "I liked them before they were popular and now they've sold out" schtick. It's tired and old. If a band is suddenly in a position to make some money doing what they love, bully for them. Why do we begrudge success? Unless it's our own. We have this need to prove that we were cool before cool was cool. (Should I say "some people" instead of the general "we"? Because of course there are people in this world who truly are cool, and therefore do not have to prove anything. They're so cool they don't know that they're cool.) I don't think of me as falling into that trap too often, though I'm sure that I do--ugh. It's true. No, really. I read an interview with Karen O, of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, recently. I'm not a big fan, though not because I think they "sold out". I just didn't go out of my way to get to know their music. (I dont' know how to do fancy linking things, so you can either buy the June/July issue of this magazine--it comes with a cd!!!!, or go to the website, here to read it. O. I think I just figured it out. This is cool.) Anyway, she talks about this and that got me to thinking on how often I do that myslef. Well no more. Viva Success!!!

I can already tell that the pressure to produce scintillating tales of adventure and insight on my blog every day is going to be a challenge. For anyone who might stumble upon this, you'll catch on right away. Inconsistent writing. That's me. Pretty typical cycle where I am concerned. I get all excited about some kind of project or lifestyle change/addition, try it out for a while, sometimes not even that long, and then I lose my enthusiasm. To write the blog, read the ayurveda book, finish knitting the scarf, start knitting the hat, learn the new monologue--it's all too much effort. Not that I think I'm the only person living on the planet who succumbs to this stop and start existence. It's like a long bus ride, isn't it? You get going, and just when you're momentum has really started to build, the bus driver has to pull over at the next stop and everyone sort of deflates. It takes effort to get going again. And then there are those bus rides late at night, when no one's waiting outside, and everyone on the bus is getting off at the same stop, in front of the Top Pot. You coast on by and all the riders, including the driver, have this little smile on their faces. "Oh, yeah...we're cruisin' now." Rarely do my new found hobbies, big ideas get to take that bus trip. And, no, I haven't started boning up on my math skills so that I can start studying for the GRE.

What I have begun to do is write a play.

I know, I know. Every actor and his motherunclebrothersistercousin is trying to write a play, or book or whatever. I was inspired, though. I've had ideas before, and thought "Oooo, I should write something about this. Yeah. I should." And I don't. Or I do and as a result I have a bazillion random starts of stories, scripts, plot ideas, what have you scribbled in various notebooks from college to now. This is the first time that I have made a concerted effort to finish what I've begun. And, up until last night, I was having fun writing this play. I cared not whether it was going to be good or bad, I simply wanted to get it out. My entire being experienced a lightness and joy as I went about my day, high on the release of artistic expression stored up from lack of use. 25 pages, I've written. That's more than I've ever done on any kind of creative writing, either as an assignment or for myself. Granted, it's dialogue, which takes up a lot of space on a page, considering the formatting. STILL!!! TWENTY FIVE PAGES!!! I've even made little rules for myself. No showing to anyone before I've at least finished a 1st draft. (If someone read it and told me it wasn't any good, I'd never finish it.) No going back and revising before I've finished the 1st draft. I read writing advice somewhere that suggests plowing through without editing or revising, so that you get it all out. It's too easy to go back and get bogged down in working on the first part and never getting around to finishing. I am afraid of falling into that trap, hence the rule. Though, I'm not sure if I can stick to it. That inner critic person, the one we all have? Well, she's started to open her big, fat, joyless mouth. Which is why I am beginning to deflate. This morning has been worse. I was watching myself write as I wrote new pages and the entire time I was commenting to me on how crappy it was. How trite, done, over done my ideas are. How after-school-special. Immature. Just plain dumb. I liked it better the first week, when I didn't care about the good or bad.

I'm aware that this is a very normal part of creating. And now that I think about it, that realization does provide some amount of comfort. I know that as an actor I generally get to a place during rehearsal where I am certain that every choice I make is a disservice to the script and a waste of everyone's time. I am a bad actor and I don't deserve to be here. It passes, and I stop wallowing in self-pity and begin to do the work, again. So, it would make sense that today, on the 25th page, that I have officially begun the descent into the murky waters of beating myself up with my own self doubt. It's my challenge, isn't it, to push through this un-fun moment and finish the script? It might become fun again, who knows? I'd like to find out. To see what's on the other side of "I suck".

lou reed at 3 am is not cool when you're trying to sleep

I like Lou Reed. Truly. He's one of the coolest musicians working today--the sunglasses, the music, the black jeans, Lauri Anderson--the king of cool, along with David Bowie and Paul Anka (have you heard his new album? omigosh, it is great! "Eye of the Tiger" never sounded so good.), to name a few. However, when one is asleep and is suddenly awakened by loud, low reverberating sounds coming from the upstairs neighbor, and it is 3 in the morning, and she has to be up at 5:30 am to check her e-mail for the incoming 48 hour film festival script thingy, and she went to bed after midnight, and even though it's Lou Reed (and the fact that she knows it is lou reed is some kind of proof that it's too loud), it is NOT cool!!!!

I've talked to my neighbor once before about his volume control--or lack thereof, I should say. This was a few weeks ago, and I'd been asleep. Then suddenly not asleep. T.V. loud. Too loud. Woke me up and I tried to just take it. Put the pillow over my head, begged silently for him to, on his own, realize that he should turn it down. I even turned on my own television and raised the volume to really rude levels in a brief moment of delirium. Nothin'. I don't like confrontation, and I'd never met this upstairs guy. My stomach was all tied in knots, and what wasn't intestinally tense was fluttery. But I walked upstairs and silently prayed to whom/whatever that this person that I was about to ask to "keep it down" would be kind. He was. We shook hands. I smiled. He apologized. It wasn't nearly has awful as it could have been. AND THEN THIS MORNING. Perhaps this just exemplifies my old lady in a 30-something body persona, but after 10 pm, I feel that in an apartment building situation, the volume ought be turned down to a respectful level.

I didn't go up there, this time. I was about to. Had my keys in my hand, standing in the middle of my apartment and glaring at my ceiling. I don't know this for sure, because I can't actually see myself when I do this, but I have this very sure sense of being able to make an amazingly scary mean face. Every fiber of my being was engaged in the necessary energy required to make that face and send it's vibes up through the ceiling and into the soul of this guy. I guess it sort of worked, because Lou Reed's loud mellow tone turned into a low mumble. Good enough for me. He was nice once, and he'd probably be nice again. Still..I definitely fall into the trap of being a little too concerned with how others are going to perceive me. I don't want to be the crabby downstairs neighbor, that "uncool" girl who lives below. Totally silly and not very self-respecting. (insert audible big sigh here.)

5'5.25''

At long last, my suspicions have been confirmed. I am NOT, as I have been led to believe for much of my late teenage years and all of my adulthood, 5'4''! No. I am NOT, as my mother insists on repeating to all who ask how tall her daughter, Linnet, is, 5'4". NO. I am FIVE FEET FIVE AND A QUARTER INCHES!!! And that is the honest truth. My height forever inscribed on the door frame between the kitchen and living/sleeping room of my apartment. (At least until the next tenant moves in and paints over it.) Next year, when I renew my driver's license, I get to CHANGE MY HEIGHT, and I won't even be fudging, like some people might do on the weight part, either. I mean, who really knows exactly how much they weigh? But I do know how TALL I am. And now, everyone else who sees my driver's license, or comes to my home and sees the door frame, or by some very random chance reads this blog will also know. Plus, I'm going to tell my mom tomorrow. The truth shall be known. It will out, I say. 5'5.25".

ruminations on what i'll be if i grow up

Today the "enter" function appears to be working. Looks like I can actually make a

space between lines. Technology, it astounds me daily.

I saw a dear to my heart friend, this weekend. He was in town for a wedding and we were able to catch a moment of time together. We talked about grad school. Or rather, my inability to decide what I would do in grad school, if I go. Lateral moves. Theatre major to Theatre graduate student. Theatre major to Poetry writing grad student. Okay, not that one. I don't write poetry. (And even if I did, it would be for MY eyes only and those of the instructor who happened to teach my poetry writing class that I only took to gain more insight into the reading of poetry. So, no. I wouldn't get an MFA in poetry writing.)

Theatre History and Criticism is appealing to me, as is Dramaturgy. Well, dramaturgy, though academic and smart sounding, is sort of in the lateral move category, since everything I read about that field hints at the difficultly of being able to earn a living wage. Great. Just what I need. Besides, both of those pursuits sound really hard. I love to learn. I love to be challenged in my learning. However, I don't actually consider myself an intellectual or a particularly stunning student. I do/did alright; and I don't know if I'd make it in that world. It has been many eons since I've written any kind of analysis paper or done research or had to coordinate footnotes. Coordinating footnotes is probably NOT even actual verbiage of the intellectual, research paper writing set. 'Nuf said.

None of this is going to matter a teeny tiny bit if I don't take the GRE.

Or, if I can find a school that I want to go to who in turn wants me to go there that doesn't require the GRE, then it might matter.

Some don't. Lots do. sigh.

What's an integer?

About this same time last year, I thought that I would begin studying for the GRE. I was 30 1/2 and in a space of fear. Doubt. 30. And a 1/2. What did I hope to be doing in 5 years? Still working retail and auditioning for nonpaying theatre? Living in my 525 sq. ft. studio apartment? Hey, I know that in some worlds, 525 square feet is a lot, and compared to the other studios that I've lived in, it is palatial. I love it, feel privileged to get to live in such luxury. I have a kitchen and dining area that are separate from the main room, even a little hallway and an enormous closet! I could fit a bed in there and have a one bedroom, except that it's a bit claustrophobic what with no windows and my dresser, and the clothes that have to hang and the jackets and coats and shoes and sewing machine and general mayhem that is my closet due to my inability to just put away the clothes, shoes, jackets and coats when I'm done with them. It's a big one. But I do not want to be living in this ginormous studio apartment when I am 35 years old. Nor do I want to count on living with someone, the person that I am in love with, because maybe I like living by myself. And besides, that is not the point. In order to know that I am self-sufficient, I must know that I can make my own way in the world, if need be. Sure, it's a bonus to have someone to share all of that responsibility with--the rent, the bills, the cleaning and perhaps even the cooking--but I am not in a place in my life where I feel like I can or even want to count on that. (Are new paragraphs not allowed in blogger land? I keep trying to use the "enter" key and nothing happens. I get no "enter" movement. Just the cursor blinking at me from the same place where it last stopped. Uninterested in my desires for it to move to the next line. Am I missing something? Or perhaps I have a malfunctioning keyboard...terrific.) I digress, the GRE. I began studying for the GRE without truly knowing what I would do once I took it. I bought a prep book, checked out more GRE-prep books from the library and even downloaded a free program from some GRE study site that lets you take several practice tests on line. And since the entire test is now done on computers, it sounded like it would be good to do a few of those. I graduated from college in 1996. The last math class that I took was in 1994, I'm pretty sure. Math 114. Previously, the easiest way to get your math credit was to take this other math class, some kind of sadistic algebra class whose sole purpose was to make all of those liberal arts and arts majors have to retake it a couple of times to get a passing grade. I was petrified of this class. In my freshman year of college I can count at least 5 friends who had to retake that class. And maybe 5 isn't a lot, except that I wouldn't say that I knew that many people, so on average...it was enough to put the fear of never graduating in me. And then, a miracle occurred. MAT 114, an overview of math; a dollop of statistics, a dash of averages and a sprinkling of algebra. phew! Thank goodness I'd put off taking that full on nothing but algebra class. I continue to digress. The point of this babble babbling is that in order to take the GRE one must perform what are termed "basic math skills". (I don't really know if that's what they're called. That's what I infer from the description of said skills.) I cannot perform a single, not ONE of those so called skills. I recall nothing. I bought a book that is supposed to help people who are going to take the SAT or GRE review all of those components that go into the basic math that you're tested on. I got through ratios, decimal points and fractions. Twice. Last year. These books haven't moved since Christmas. I actually dust these books--they get dusty--and I can't even look at them when I do. I look out the window instead, because out there is away from that pile of recognition of my own guilt at not even really giving the whole "teach myself math all over again" thing a good college try. Obviously this GRE thing has been on my mind, lately, or I wouldn't be writing about it. So, yes. Okay. I want to give it another go.

I'll Have a Double Tall JAM

That's "just add milk" to all you uninitiated out there--which included me, until around 11 am this morning. What does that mean? And why did he say it with such authority, as if everyone knows what a double tall jam is? A double tall anything implies that you are starting with a 12 oz. cup, two shots of espresso and filling it up with...water, making an americano; steamed milk, making it a latte; or what? milk and extra foam which is kind of a cappucino, I guess. But how does "just add milk" differ from a latte? And not "just add milk", but "JAM". The poor barista looked at the guy with an expression of "I want to help you and I have no idea what you're talking about so I'll just look at you with what I hope is not pity", while mouthing silently the word "jam" and--I assumed as I watched without looking like I was watching--hoping he didn't mean for her to put a scoop of the fresh raspberry preserves into his coffee. I have spent a good part of this lovely summer day thinking about what that could possibly mean, about what that drink could taste like or even look like. And even though I saw the man leave the pastry shop, sipping from a white paper cup, seemingly satisfied with its contents, it is a bit of a mystery to me. Unless--and I admit this is just coming to me as I think this out via the keyboard--it means adding cold milk, unsteamed, unanything except straight from the plastic gallon jug taken out of the cold refrigerator milk poured over hot shots of espresso, making the entire drink tepid and flat? yum? Not a dollop of cream over the scalding hot coffee, but a full-what? 8 ounces of cold milk? Crazy, daddy-o, ker-aaaaaaa-zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Later that same day...

I still can't quite believe that I've started this thing. I keep reading other blogs that are recommened by my friend--whose blog inspired me to stop the day dreamin' and start the blog doin'. These other bloggers, the ones I've been reading, they write so well. Smart. Clever. ENTERTAINING!!!! The pressure is great and so far this is just for me. To be read by only me. And yet, one day...maybe for others?

Actually, I feel a bit silly.

After wrestling with the million ideas that popped into my head regarding the "my favorite ___" section of the profile, I think I've had enough blogging for my first day. Or, at least, for this moment in time on my first day. There may be more later, once I've calmed my fears of exposing all of my unoriginal thoughts regarding most everything.