thing-a-meme
Once again, I’ve been tagged to list some things that still make me, well, me. So hang onto your hats, people, it’s time for our second (and last) go ‘round into my version of “What Do You Meme?
Others you'll find milling about in this place: My family, all of whom will write books about me, later, based on therapy transcripts. Lots of friends, both old and new. Various dogs, though Scarlet O’Hara Howard is prominently featured for her intellect and general good nature.
Born in Ohio, but I’ve lived in the Commonwealth of Kentucky for the past 14 years.
I'm addicted to capturing moments, people, and places.
I'm in a tawdry love triangle with architecture, art, and writing.
I covet good socks above all else. That might be because I absolutely hate feet.
I love to debate, though I often get myself in trouble. Socrates is a role model.
I prefer NCAA football over its professional counterpart. The Ohio State University Buckeyes are without question or hesitation my favorite of all time.
I lose/search for nothing as often as I lose/search for rubber bands. And so now you'll almost always find me with a rubber band dangling around my wrist. And invariably, I'll end up losing/searching for that, too.
Two words: critical thinking.
I have a fascination with people and ideas that leads me, vicariously, around the globe and back. Daily.
I collect rocks from most everywhere I go.
My favorite book as a child was The Little Prince by Antoine Saint-Exupery. All these years later, it remains in my top five.
My two favorite films are Cinema Paradiso and Elf.
I laugh. A lot. When I'm not, there's at least a semi-perpetual mischievous, sarcastic grin on my face.
I keep my pens and pencils in separate pencil boxes on my desk.
I do not like the sun on me. I attribute this to being a natural redhead. And although there are those non-gingers who insist that it’s possible for a redhead to tan, I speak for all my people when I say this: that’s not a tan you think you see on us from a distance — it’s full-thickness third-degree burns that go nearly to the bone.
I may, indeed, become invisible in a snow squall, but my perfectly translucent skin is fine with the life choices I’ve made.
I connect deeply with places. I would disintegrate and die without learning.
There are precious few things I wouldn’t quickly sacrifice for my mom’s biscuits and gravy.
I believe very strongly in the innate and extreme magic and power of the human brain and untapped human ability.
If I ever claim bankruptcy, it'll be over books. And yes, that would be acceptable.
My favorite color is, or at least was, red.
I'm afraid of heights, and I get vertigo pretty bad.
I once stood at the paint swatch aisle in Home Depot and pocketed/brought home swatches of every single Glidden color on the market. No reason, other than I’m colorblind. They're on a shelf by my desk and represent a portion of what I’m unable to see, yet remember.
My reason for maintaining a journal is for the secret hope that by doing so, you'll breathe in the same (deep, sweet, ambiguous, long, funny, poignant, life-changing, silly, strong, enigmatic, selfish, excited, beautiful, difficult ... ) moment that I am, and we can collectively share that between us.
I believe that imperfections are the fibers that tie us all together and create a greater humanism and collective experience. But few seem to acknowledge, remember or value that.
My strongest affinities are the moon, the stars, and puppies.
Dirt roads.
My mind easily becomes too complicated and won't shut off. I have trouble letting things remain unresolved.
I dig my heels into conversations and questions. I tend to be more raw and direct than most are comfortable with; consequently, I often tug at my comfort zones. I make no apologies for fundamental truths. Collectively, these have all cost, and earned, friendships over the years.
I value above all else good parenting, social commitment, and personal integrity.
I value the least money, status, and social pretense.
One of my favorite opening lines is, ”I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice.” John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany
With most things, I'm satisfied only briefly before it's time to see what else is possible. It’s both a blessing and a curse.
proofing
If it weren't for the last minute, nothing would get done.
― Rita Mae Brown
It's Saturday morning, and I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis before noon.
I'm not going to wander out to the kitchen to open the refrigerator and gaze inside with the hope that the contents will be different than they were five minutes ago. I'm not going to pick up book after book to read enviously about the lives of people who don’t have a poetry thesis to proof. I'm not going to sit near my computer so that I can hear the little chime that sounds when a new email appears.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
I'm not going to put on music and dance around the living room. I'm not going to look out the window to watch the rain. I'm not going to empty the dishwasher. I’m not going to check the streaming services for new and interesting documentaries or engage in a conversation about recycling with my neighbor at the trash chute.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
I'm not going to write an email to Matt, even though I'm tempted because I know that he, too, has work to do — and nothing brings objectivity to the surface like procrastination. I'm not going to reread a dozen emails he sent me on Tuesday when he was supposed to be working. I'm not going to get out my brush pens and smear big swirls of I-don’t-know-what-color onto pale thick paper. I'm not going to read the books stacked around my house. I'm not going to thumb through the newest Levenger catalog.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
I'm not going to write an entry or comment on world events or review illustrations for the new book. I'm not going to write any of the emails I owe to friends or family. I'm not going to write in my journal. I'm not going to call my sister, although she better call me.
I'm going to finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
Emails will fill my inbox, marked as unread for hours. The postman might bring some new magazines, a journal, maybe even a letter. The phone will ring, but I'll not answer it. The chocolate syrup will stay hidden inside its container, ice cream nestled into its spot in the freezer. The newspaper will stay folded in the hall outside my door. Daydreams will stay curled up inside the spaces of my body.
I'll finish proofing my friend’s poetry thesis.
simple pleasures
On the news this morning, a reporter was prattling on and on about things that get on her nerves. It was quite funny and I laughed along with the others onscreen with her. During the commercial break, though, I had a thought: instead of talking about annoyances, perhaps it'd suit us well to list things that bring us joy. Life, after all, is really about what we choose from day to day and what we spend our energy on.
Now, I'm all for fighting the good fight, but I can choose my reality. That being the case, I started to compile a list of my small pleasures. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
My childhood home. Books. Family. Poetry. Eastern Kentucky. Tiramisu. Belly laughs. Jesus. Baby snores. Jack Kerouac. Even numbers. The Ohio State University Buckeyes. Nice stationery. My beloved moon. Hugs. Farmer’s markets. Dinners with friends. Puccini. A freshly-made bed. Thoroughbred horses. City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. Ice-cold grapefruit juice. Real letters (or postcards). A really good fountain pen. Acoustic guitars. A perfect cup of hot chocolate. Live music at small venues. Home-grown tomatoes. Fresh-baked bread. Reading. Babies laughing. Singing. That lovely shade of (what I think is) violet in the sky just before nightfall. Hugs and kisses from my nieces and nephews — expected or otherwise. Mozart, Billie Holiday, Andrea Bocelli, Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington, Frank Sinatra, Cecilia Bartoli, Bobby Darin, John Lee Hooker, Etta James, Puccini, Michael Feinstein — the music list is endless and covers almost everything.
All-in-all, not a bad start.
unfunny
You knew it was coming. I mean, you had to know that sooner or later there was going to be a post where I shared something personal. Maybe you hoped and prayed that your intuition was wrong. Perhaps you tried to convince yourself that I had more sense than to bare my soul on here for all to see.
I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no sense. Ask around if you need confirmation.
And so, with that disclaimer, I’d now like to talk about the time I nearly lost my foot in a tragic bouncy-house accident.
It was a Saturday in mid-September and I was away at school in West Virginia. We’d been playing cards all night (Shanghai Rummy, as I recall), and were going a bit stir-crazy when someone suddenly had a great idea: let’s go hang out at a music festival that was going on in Wheeling.
Now we (the suggestees) were aware of no such festival, but we had faith in the supreme knowledge of the suggestor and were all eager to have some fun off campus. And since this was long before Al Gore single-handedly invented the Internet, the luxury of online fact-checking simply didn’t exist.
We, my tens of readers, were acting on pure instinct and the morning-after-effects of Iron City Light. And so it was with great enthusiasm that we crammed into my little blue Mustang and headed down the hill.
Now, just for some perspective, Wheeling was (and probably still is, I’d imagine) a mere 12 miles from the Hilltop, a short (though harrowing) drive along a twisted maze of curves that Satan himself designed, known as WV-88. So when you have eight or ten people crammed into a vehicle designed to fit four, things can get a little dicey.
And yet still, driven by the power of sheer will and determination, we finally arrived at our destination.
Except it wasn’t a music festival. It was a fair. A very low-budget fair. More of a carnival, really.
Okay, let’s just call a spade a spade: it was a family barbeque with some pinwheel decorations stuck by the curb and a guy with a boombox.
But we didn’t drive all the way down the hill to simply turn back. If there was fun to be had, we were determined to find it. And so, while walking through the neighborhood, we came upon a beautiful sight: there, in the corner of a yard in the middle of the block, was a fully-inflated bouncy house.
We took one look at that beauty and collectively decided that bounce, we must.
At this point, we strode over to the main attraction, tossed our shoes and our dignity aside, and entered puffy paradise.
We jumped gently at first, showing off our bounce prowess. Oh, we were stars. Prodigies. If there had been some kind of Olympic event involving bouncy houses, we would’ve been champions. But alas, there was no league or training, and so we’d have to settle for that day’s successful bounce-o-rama.
But alas (for a second time), disaster lurked quietly in our future.
Shortly before dusk, the high-energy boombox-driven mix-tape rocking Hall & Oates pumping atmosphere started to change as folks began returning to their homes. To return to the commoners strolling about the not-quite-a-carnival carnival, it became necessary to finally exit the bouncy house.
In my defense, I believe it necessary to explain how the bouncy house was structured. There were steps (also known as the inflated ramps of hell) that slowly moved into the bouncy house entrance. On either side of the rising and falling hell platforms were very thin sheets of metal that were designed to prevent the inflated ramps of hell from moving.
Don’t ask me how or ask me why, but as we exited the bouncy house, my left sock and foot got wedged in the space between the inflatable ramps of hell and the metal side thingy. It was trapped. And as more folks began to exit the bouncy house, the shift in weight on the ramps of hell began twisting my foot, ripping through my sock.
My toes, people, were mere seconds away from never seeing the ‘90s.
They’d never curl in fear as they watched Alien. There would be no toe-picking-up of socks from the floor. My toes, although they didn’t know it, wouldn’t survive until Y2K.
And then a friend screamed. Or maybe she laughed. Either way, she made a noise and the rest was a blur.
Children covered their faces in horror. Another friend bounced aimlessly inside as she tried to offer assistance. Finally, someone yanked my foot out of the stronghold. Laying on the cool grass surrounded by festival attendees and an off-duty nurse telling us she was an off-duty nurse, I realized that my feet were safe, my toes intact.
My future Olympic career, however, was no more.
I’ve not been able to enjoy a bouncy house since that dreadful day without the use of a specially designed harness and backpack that allows me to hover above the steps themselves, never really ever setting foot on the metal menaces I refer to as the jaws, not of life, but death because of what happened to me that dark and disastrous day.
That day will live in infamy as one of the unfunniest days of my life.
For now, though, I think I’ll check to see what time constraints Go Fund Me has in place for inflatable-related pain and suffering.
star show
Though I’m flat on my back under the enormous sky, I know I’m really in the local planetarium, where I’ve come with the other third graders for the Star Show. Tonight the trailing blazes of white explode across the darkness like firecrackers, and my companions ooooh and point and say, Over there, though the words are too late to be of use and hang in the air much longer than light.
What I remember about the Star Show is the commentator’s calm voice, the miracle spreading overhead as he lured us in, as if he didn’t need special tongs to hand us the sky’s mysteries. He needed only the reclining seats, the artificial ceiling shuddering close with its countless stars, our willingness to leave the known earth, our parents, teachers, friends, our selves for this uncertain meeting in the dark. He urged us to let our eyes adjust for the journey, he asked us to relax as the room began to spin and he whispered in his knowledgeable voice about Jupiter. Like a priest appearing suddenly in the dome to discuss the Holy Mother, he explained with sorrow and anger that brilliant Galileo had to retract his scientific conclusions before the Inquisition.
This made us sad, because we already knew that Galileo was right, that four moons revolved around Jupiter, as the earth revolved around the sun.
And then, as though someone was shaking out a bedspread, someone shook the sky and all the stars shifted — it was winter, night of the lean wolf. His voice grew cold and we buttoned our sweaters because the temperature was falling, and we wanted to follow him wherever he was going, which was December. Across the mountain passes we hunted bear; with the Spaniards, we cured buffalo hides and predicted the hour of sunrise. Who didn’t want to linger on that winter mesa with the spotted ponies, so close to the stars?
There wasn’t time. He was galloping towards summer while I sat thinking of what I’d lost: a glimpse of the sadness to come, the astronomer’s sure purpose. He guided the constellations from early spring to June and then the sun rose higher than we thought possible and the longest day endured; he brought us into a meadow drenched with light but it was night, we knew it, for now we could name every star. How could he leave us here, now that we had become his, now that he had asked us to learn his heaven?
As the chairs began to tilt he threw the stars across the sky, flung meteors carelessly, and laughed a grown-up laugh. He punctured the darkness with white bullets and the kids began to shout. The seats fell forward and the sun rose in the auditorium, warming the air. I sat before the retreating stars, bereft. Row by row we stood and blinked into that autumn afternoon, as the ordinary jeers filled our mouths. For weeks, the sky was a white sheet against the amber leaves.