Never before has work been so disposable. No longer do we have careers like our parents, but we have jobs. Some last for a year or two, sometimes you're in the same field for 10 years. You probably have a few diplomas behind you, as well. But, when it comes to a crashing economy nobody gives a hoot about your framed diplomas.
This whole "bad economy" thing came looming into our employed faces when a number of months ago, and totally out of the blue, our friend lost his job in advertising. Turns out these companies feel they can do more with less and out comes the hatchet. It was a strange shock to see someone go from comfortable in their way of life...to very, very uncomfortable.
And then, renewed! He's found a new life in the wake of destruction.
I'm sure there were days, in the 50 years of working full-time, that my dad said to himself, "if i could do anything i want, i'd be a.... i'd start a..... " I remember meeting all the different artists my parent's repped and thinking to myself: you can do that for a living?! Now days, it seems that's the eternal goal: Doing what you'd always dreamed of. And yet, there's a lot of people that get into seemingly innocuous corporate jobs that slowly crush their spirits, all the while they're saying to themselves: if.......i....could.....just......get......out..... and then they get fired, and then it's a crushing blow, and then they take the bull by the horns, and then they do what they were always meant to do, but always told themselves they couldn't.
I'm genuinely impressed by people that make it happen. Whatever IT happens to be for them. Turns out, there is a niche for all of us.
Some would say I'm violently against facebook. RK thinks if I just got on it, I'd love it. I might. But it would be unhealthy for me. So, I'm not even tempted.
I've got plenty to keep up with as it is: email, 6 accounts; blogging, daily; reading other people's blogs and commenting, as often as I can; texting, a constant; instant messaging, once in a great while which then turns into hours; phone calls to friends far and near, as often as possible; writing letters, weekly; promoting the concept to others of writing letters due to the fact that I make greeting cards, a daily!
It's a lot! Well, it's a lot for me. I can barely keep up with it. And the good friends in my life that have been there for years, I can barely keep up with them, too. And the new friends, which I always love to make...there's a whole 'nother category of keeping up.
So, no. For me, facebook is just another way to bring more chaos into my already chaotic life. More people, where there's barely any room for me, at this point. And more people to call "friends" that, as my friends who are ON facebook tell me, they don't actually consider "friends" but they "friend" each other anyway...and then don't keep up with them...and I find it all to be another way to remove ourselves from the daily little thing we call 'life' that consists of a lot of little things we call 'relationships'. AUUUUGHHGH!!! This is exactly where the "why-don't-you-get-on-facebook?" conversation takes me every single time.
Maybe I take it all too seriously, but I don't think so.
I've never been into organized dance, kinda like organized religion, it seems to be too much of a spiritual and personal thing to be choreographed and "organized" with steps you must follow.
My version of dancing is about like this...
When I read the Times, I always skip over the dance reviews, but find myself staring at the photographs that usually accompany the piece, wondering to myself: how the heck do they do that move?! Dancing, for me, comes down to the times when I've got my walkman on and am blasting some Beyonce or I've just finished a really good piece of artwork I'm super proud of ...and up comes my 15 mins of joy, alone, in my studio.
Recently, a woman named Elise left a very nice comment on my blog & it prompted me to check out her blog, too. Much to my surprise, I found a blog all about ballet. I guess the "surprise" part comes into play when I think, 'how does someone who loves organized dance come to my blog and enjoy it?' It's kind of an exciting feeling. What's more exciting is finding someone that has that kind of passion for one thing and solidly dedicates her search for information to that one thing.
I can already tell Elise is going to introduce me to a whole new chapter of interest. I may even buy a ticket to see the ballet this year!
individually, each one of these quotes is so juicy. i must've been the only person in the library with my mouth wide open, half a smile on my face, looking upwards. everyone else, been there, done that. but my love for libraries is so huge, RK knew to take me to the main bklyn library the first day i arrived. we handled books like they were secret treasures, pulling them off the shelves very carefully...opening pages, smelling the paper, giggling at the innards of them all. you just can't beat the reverence of a library. fingers crossed, we never get so crazy in this world that libraries become obsolete. i fear it. irrational? perhaps. but so is the kindle!
Just when I think I'm having a hard time of it all, somehow fates collide and I find myself discovering that I should really shut the heck up because my life is just fine. Better than fine. It's downright fantastical.
She lives with chronic pain and burns over 80% of her body, some days her children don't recognize her and cry for their mommy, yet she continues to post about how great life is and how wonderful each opportunity can be.
It's impressive. It's moving. And it's another reason I should get down on my knees and thank the universe for colluding with me and everything I have: good, bad and ugly, in my miraculous life.
Saint Antonin was such a freakin trippy magic place. I actually said at one point, 'I think I could live here', much to my mother's delight (she'd felt the same) and I've never had a desire to move to France. Strange, but this time it got me. Maybe it was the Farmer's Market, the bar we frequented to eat chevre chaud and get the town gossip, or the afternoon spent listening to the eerie accordion player, or the organic style street art, or the....
I've had this real thing for bikes for, say, quite awhile now. They've always held some serious allure for me. I can remember back to one of my first: painted bright yellow, a flowery-print banana seat and, the way I remember it, these big ole chopper-like handlebars.
But, prolly not. For the handlebar part only, though. The rest of it was shit hot.
I've gone through bike phases, for sure. I don't remember too much bike time in high school, for instance. It was all about our Model-A Ford then. Who needed to ride a bicycle when you could drive the next, man-made machine just UP from a two-wheeler? I actually skipped the whole gears and hand-brakes generational thing. So, while other young, hip kids were tooling around on their 5-speed Schwinn's.... ole molly here was still kickin it with the foot brakes.
Then, there was that time period in there where I was doing the birkenstock, woven-pants thing and I tried the hot new sport of mountain biking! Ugh. That was not my thing. I don't need all that bump-stuff and adrenaline and straight-downhill-fear. No thank you!
So, it wasn't until after college life, into adult life, I moved to NYC and hit up the flea market on 24th street looking for housewares, old paintings, and some scrappy photo books that I happened upon a bike instead. There was a slew of them there in the old parking lot and I don't remember seeing one mountain bike in the whole lot. This was my posse. My bike love was re-born. I bought an old, black BSA that weighed about 500 pounds and have loved it with great pride to this day. It took me all over New York City and is a key component to some of my absolute, very bestest memories.
Bikes play a hugemongous-superly-fantastic part of my everyday life. It's trippy. I can check out someones bike like I'm ...um.... yeah, well.... like I'm checking someone OUT! RK does it too. We do it at the same time: 'oh, man, sweet bike. yeah, check out those cool pedals, oh wow, look at that, ooooh, those handlebars are sweet'... this is starting to sound weird. It's just a little bike love.
About a year ago, RK said it was time to put away the BSA and it was time to get a bike that had real gears for going UP hill and real brakes for going DOWN hill. I really had no idea what he was talking about. I thought everyone's knees burned and ached when they tried to go up a hill. I'd never ridden with gears. And I'd surely never ridden up hills like they have in San Francisco. Eventually, he wore me down. I think I might have gasped with joy the first time I used a gear, for real, going up a hill. RK must've heard me and said to himself, 'Thats It!'
I'll admit it. I got into it. He was right. Hand brakes can be fantastic. It's true. I liked being able to bike up our hill to our front door. So, there you go. I put my old BSA to the side and started riding what I always thought of as a "mountain bike". I even put my highly valuable "i (heart) my bike" bell on it! Yes, I grew to love it.
Anyway, this is all to say that today was a bit of shock when I walked outside to get on my gear-filled, hand-breaking bike and head out for the day and it wasn't there. All that was left was a cut lock, fallen to the ground. Ah, stupid me. I let my guard down and there she goes.
So, it's out there somewhere.
I feel for it.
And, I feel strangely violated.
The only silver lining I can see is that I'll now pull out my old BSA beauty, fix 'er up and get her back on the hills.
She's a looker, that one.
Say what you will about the French-- and, man, many a day on this trip i had something to say about them-- their manners are impeccable. Whether it's a little kid walking by you, seemingly busy bouncing a ball, or a newspaper salesman in a bad mood, or a frazzled grocery store clerk, they are always ready with a "bon jour!", "bon soir!" and ultimately, a "merci!". I LOVE that!
In the states, we don't look at each other this way. We don't chance that level of eye contact. I'm a pretty eye-contact-y sorta gal, but it still depends on my mood, whether Im going to pass someone on the street, look them in the eye and make verbal contact. And, even then, it's pretty rare.
But, in France, I never missed an opportunity to meet the eyes of my fellow man (or woman, or child) and give a slight nod, a bright eyed smile and a warm "bon jour!" (or, of course, whatever the occasion called for). Never, not ever once, was it not repeated back to me. You gotta love that kind of human contact.
Driving down a quaint French road, we saw the plant--big, bushy, gorgeous lavender. But we weren't quite sure if it was lavender (it had a sort of bushy, sage feel to it)--so, we pulled over to the side of the road and I reached out an innocent arm to take just a snip of evidence. I was quite aware of the numerous bees floating around this yummy bush, full of pollen, but as I was watching the two or three to the side of me, I paid absolutely no attention to what was in front of me and to where I was slamming my big paw into and BAM! I felt it instantly. Pulling out a flower never had quite this level of burning before. When I brought the stem up to my eyes, there was the little, seemingly innocent, creature that had stung me. He was stuck to me. Not with glue, happiness, or obsession. He was stuck to me cuz he had no other choice. I now had his little butt sticker and he probably didn't want to let it go. Heck, I literally had his life in my hands. In my finger! I shook him free (and, yes, i know, to his death) and slowly but surely started freaking out.
I haven't been stung since i was a little kid, maybe five or six? I barely remember it. I know I'm not allergic to bee stings, but what if I'd grown to be allergic? What if I'd gained an allergy in my older age?! There's so many people with so many more allergies these days, the hypochondriac in my brain got the better of me. I was thinking snake bite, the poison slowly sinking into my blood stream with each passing minute. My mom was in the back seat and my sister was behind the wheel,
me: ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! oh man, get it out! gads, its in there! help me get it out please!
mom: um, okay, uh...lemme try and find my glasses. i cant see it in there. are you sure it's his stinger? i think its just a bit of sticker from the bush...
me: no, no, no, its his stinger, i'm sure of it, somebodys got to pull it out and suck out the poison! i cant cuz i'm squeezing my finger to make sure it doesn't flow into my blood stream!,
I turn to my sister,
me: jeezus, it hurts! gads, get it out! please!
sister: oh, um, okay, hang on, hang on...i gotta find my glasses, i can't see it. i know how you're feeling though, cuz this is how i felt the other day when i got stung. did you know i got stung two days ago when i was trying to take a picture of you and mom?
mom: oh yeah, molly, did you know your sister got stung yesterday? oh,no, not yesterday, but a couple days ago when she was up in that window? jeeze, how bad did that hurt Kaari?
me: oh man, you guys, THIS one really, really hurts...
mom: okay! i found my glasses, lemme see, let me see it...
YANK! she pulled it out and the pain just continued. I couldn't beeelieve how much it hurt. Man, did it hurt this much at age six?! Was it poisoning me as we sat here?! Was i going to die?! Was my finger swelling up?! It looked bigger. It definitely looked much bigger, and blue-er. Not good. When would the pain go away?! I'd put so much pressure on it, it was white and flat. Nope, It didn't look good. While I was wondering if I needed to lay down for awhile, I heard...
mom: so, um ...is it lavender?
