Oooo, no time today! Maybe I'll add on some later, but in a couple of hours, I need to be presentable and alert and prepared, and right now I am none of those things. I'm working on the presentable and prepared in hopes the alert will follow.
--
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight
My best friend from childhood lived just down the street from me in a brown and gray stone house with a large basement. Her birthday came in the first week of September, which meant that, at that time in our lives, it more often than not fell on Labor Day weekend. She would have large birthday sleepovers which always found a number of us sprawled on our sleeping bags on the basement carpet late at night, still talking despite exhausting our usual topics, talking, talking, despite the struggle to stay awake.
Of course, Labor Day weekend was always the Jerry Lewis telethon. Even at two o'clock in the morning, the teevee was still on, with Jerry pushing himself to continue, half asleep, to make funny, or when he ran out to comic energy, exhort and beg people to call in with pledges. At the same time, a fifties retro doo-wop singing group* was on tour, and the commercial breaks came around regularly even during the telethon. The commercials I remember from that time were always about the greatest hits album of somebody, and this group, asking you to *call now* to get tickets for the concert.
*Sha Na Na
The commercial always started the same way. A guy in greased back hair complete with ducktail and muscle shirt, shown from the waist up and backed by colorful lights, would intone the opening bass lyric a cappella:
and swiveling smoothly to show off his muscled arm from various angles, whereupon the camera would start to pan across one singer after another - greasers and boppers - as they soulfully kicked in with all harmony:
Even after seeing and hearing that same commercial for months, it seemed as if the singers didn't belong up that late, even though the lyrics clearly said it was three o'clock in the morning. It was incongruous to see them singing their hearts out, wooing the camera with each hair flip and sigh, and the announcer telling you to *call now* to order tickets - show times extended. It was as if they were begging us to buy tickets, as if when we saw the commercial one more time, we would be convinced to come to the show.
I almost felt sorry for them, all dolled up in their retro costumes, reduced to hawking themselves to the uncaring late night viewers. Didn't they get to rest? Didn't they get to perform their concert and go home? It seemed like I had been seeing them for months, and here they still were, brightly vamping, with the pale light from the teevee washing over the drowsing lumps of preteen girls and the insistent announcer with what felt like an unseemly loud voice for that hour.
That night, the lyrics dug themselves into my brain, and some thirty-some years later, I've never been able to extract them.
And also the sadness, and the polish of the irresistible tune stays with me. It's wistful but sincere, optimistic, even promising. There will be more times. We will always croon and sway and sing goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.
--
Of course, Labor Day weekend was always the Jerry Lewis telethon. Even at two o'clock in the morning, the teevee was still on, with Jerry pushing himself to continue, half asleep, to make funny, or when he ran out to comic energy, exhort and beg people to call in with pledges. At the same time, a fifties retro doo-wop singing group* was on tour, and the commercial breaks came around regularly even during the telethon. The commercials I remember from that time were always about the greatest hits album of somebody, and this group, asking you to *call now* to get tickets for the concert.
*Sha Na Na
The commercial always started the same way. A guy in greased back hair complete with ducktail and muscle shirt, shown from the waist up and backed by colorful lights, would intone the opening bass lyric a cappella:
Duh DOO-ah, duh DOO-ah, duh DOO-ah, duh DOE
and swiveling smoothly to show off his muscled arm from various angles, whereupon the camera would start to pan across one singer after another - greasers and boppers - as they soulfully kicked in with all harmony:
Goodnight Sweetheart, it's time to go.
Goodnight Sweetheart, it's time to go.
Goodnight Sweetheart, it's time to go.
I hate to leave you,
But I really must say,
Goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.
Even after seeing and hearing that same commercial for months, it seemed as if the singers didn't belong up that late, even though the lyrics clearly said it was three o'clock in the morning. It was incongruous to see them singing their hearts out, wooing the camera with each hair flip and sigh, and the announcer telling you to *call now* to order tickets - show times extended. It was as if they were begging us to buy tickets, as if when we saw the commercial one more time, we would be convinced to come to the show.
I almost felt sorry for them, all dolled up in their retro costumes, reduced to hawking themselves to the uncaring late night viewers. Didn't they get to rest? Didn't they get to perform their concert and go home? It seemed like I had been seeing them for months, and here they still were, brightly vamping, with the pale light from the teevee washing over the drowsing lumps of preteen girls and the insistent announcer with what felt like an unseemly loud voice for that hour.
That night, the lyrics dug themselves into my brain, and some thirty-some years later, I've never been able to extract them.
And also the sadness, and the polish of the irresistible tune stays with me. It's wistful but sincere, optimistic, even promising. There will be more times. We will always croon and sway and sing goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.
--
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Time Whips By
It's going to be one of those days. Writing something for the deadline.
Grappling again with where the time goes.
I turn around, and I am technically middle-aged. What? When did this happen? Where did that last decade go, anyway? I know where it went - living and having adventures with my husband, but you know, it's been a long time! I started the relationship as a young person. Okay, youngish.
It's as if I am standing still (or moving leisurely) while the world whips by me at tremendous speed. Not so much the people and events close to me. I see my friends and sisters and parents age, gradually. I've watched my husband grow progressively more silver. He had dark hair when I met, and more of it. He actually had a hairline then. It's not like a surprise when I turn around and he's looking so distinguished.
The small changes are perhaps too small to notice daily. It's when people and places/events are farther away from my primary circle that I really notice how things have changed because I don't see them every day. Going back to my childhood city at first was a shock; now I've gotten used to the changes. I'm getting used to the present-day faces of classmates I knew twenty or thirty years ago. Clearly, they must have changed in that time. They are who they are NOW. I just missed the transformation.
Maybe Einstein would have had something to say about relative time according to distance or proximity. Where's my diagram?
We are not so much attuned to the small and subtle shifts. Maybe I notice the time passing only when I am far enough away to really notice when things have changed, or when I am right there to see it with my own eyes? But even then, how do you really pay attention?
My little girl is not an infant any more. Those first three months passed by in a blur. And now that I can see the holidays approaching, I know that after that comes... *gasp* the first birthday. And I will be both thrilled and sad that my little girl is growing up, up, and up. I will turn around, and she'll be heading off to primary school, high school, college, the other side of the country or world, going on adventures. I think if I watch over her and take enough pictures, I will not miss her childhood, this dear heart, my child. Although I doubt I will be able to hold on to it. Life is always changing, new things arising, other things fading away.
And my own youth, mostly misspent? Gone. Gone! I still feel like a youngster. Well, except for my knees and feet, and heavier body, and those awful, awful chin hairs. Yeah. Even if somebody tells you when you are younger to appreciate where you are, who believes that? As my mother recently said, I can't believe I'm seventy!
The time just keeps whipping by as if I am not looking. Am I not looking? Maybe I need to be more aware? I will turn around and wonder why I didn't save more for retirement or maybe I'll be getting ready for my own death. Will I ever be a grandparent? There ought to be a theorem for how time seems to slip away faster and faster, the farther you go into life.
I can't grab onto anything. I think to myself: I must pay attention. Like a Thich Nhat Hanh devotee, I should savor the orange of my childhood, or was that the cookie? I must remind myself that every moment is like that orange or cookie. Sweet and quickly devoured, so fast that we barely taste it.
Thay's poetry reminds me I am of the nature to grow old. If we didn't age or see changes, how would we ever know that time had passed?
A shift of the light, a shift of the season, a sprinkling of white hair that was not there before.
We are in the thick of Autumn now, coming up fast on the end of the year with its holidays and family gatherings. I think I must make the most of my moments, quiet or jovial.
I can't grab time, and there's no point in watching it, but I suppose I should look at its passing out of the corners of my eyes, smiling when my daughter finds each new accomplishment. She revels in making silly sounds and faces and waiting for her mother to laugh and smile back. I brush back her hair which has suddenly, it seems, become thicker and blonder.
--
Grappling again with where the time goes.
I turn around, and I am technically middle-aged. What? When did this happen? Where did that last decade go, anyway? I know where it went - living and having adventures with my husband, but you know, it's been a long time! I started the relationship as a young person. Okay, youngish.
It's as if I am standing still (or moving leisurely) while the world whips by me at tremendous speed. Not so much the people and events close to me. I see my friends and sisters and parents age, gradually. I've watched my husband grow progressively more silver. He had dark hair when I met, and more of it. He actually had a hairline then. It's not like a surprise when I turn around and he's looking so distinguished.
The small changes are perhaps too small to notice daily. It's when people and places/events are farther away from my primary circle that I really notice how things have changed because I don't see them every day. Going back to my childhood city at first was a shock; now I've gotten used to the changes. I'm getting used to the present-day faces of classmates I knew twenty or thirty years ago. Clearly, they must have changed in that time. They are who they are NOW. I just missed the transformation.
Maybe Einstein would have had something to say about relative time according to distance or proximity. Where's my diagram?
We are not so much attuned to the small and subtle shifts. Maybe I notice the time passing only when I am far enough away to really notice when things have changed, or when I am right there to see it with my own eyes? But even then, how do you really pay attention?
My little girl is not an infant any more. Those first three months passed by in a blur. And now that I can see the holidays approaching, I know that after that comes... *gasp* the first birthday. And I will be both thrilled and sad that my little girl is growing up, up, and up. I will turn around, and she'll be heading off to primary school, high school, college, the other side of the country or world, going on adventures. I think if I watch over her and take enough pictures, I will not miss her childhood, this dear heart, my child. Although I doubt I will be able to hold on to it. Life is always changing, new things arising, other things fading away.
And my own youth, mostly misspent? Gone. Gone! I still feel like a youngster. Well, except for my knees and feet, and heavier body, and those awful, awful chin hairs. Yeah. Even if somebody tells you when you are younger to appreciate where you are, who believes that? As my mother recently said, I can't believe I'm seventy!
The time just keeps whipping by as if I am not looking. Am I not looking? Maybe I need to be more aware? I will turn around and wonder why I didn't save more for retirement or maybe I'll be getting ready for my own death. Will I ever be a grandparent? There ought to be a theorem for how time seems to slip away faster and faster, the farther you go into life.
I can't grab onto anything. I think to myself: I must pay attention. Like a Thich Nhat Hanh devotee, I should savor the orange of my childhood, or was that the cookie? I must remind myself that every moment is like that orange or cookie. Sweet and quickly devoured, so fast that we barely taste it.
Thay's poetry reminds me I am of the nature to grow old. If we didn't age or see changes, how would we ever know that time had passed?
A shift of the light, a shift of the season, a sprinkling of white hair that was not there before.
We are in the thick of Autumn now, coming up fast on the end of the year with its holidays and family gatherings. I think I must make the most of my moments, quiet or jovial.
I can't grab time, and there's no point in watching it, but I suppose I should look at its passing out of the corners of my eyes, smiling when my daughter finds each new accomplishment. She revels in making silly sounds and faces and waiting for her mother to laugh and smile back. I brush back her hair which has suddenly, it seems, become thicker and blonder.
--
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
NaBloPoMo - Coffee, the Enticer
Coffee, thou lovely, is not my best friend.
I love coffee/ I love tea/ I love the java jive/ and it loves me.
And I love to sing that song, obviously. In 5 part harmony. Ask me nicely and I'll sing it for you. Ooo-ah! Ooo-ah!
But coffee, the eternal symbol of what you need to stay awake and get things done, is not all it's cracked up to be. In fact, one of my old graphic design resources calls it "nerve poison."
And when I was back in school, I discovered that, indeed, coffee was *counter* productive to my creative output.
The second year, I had so many projects going at once that I literally had no time to fart around. Any time I had any small space of time, I had to decided which project I was going to neglect next in favor of another.
So there I went to the coffee dispenser for a little mocha latte-something to keep me awake and jumpstart my energy.
I discovered to my chagrin that the coffee was making it harder to concentrate.
When I had those bits of time when I needed to be accomplishing *some*thing on my overwhelming list, I could not concentrate. I could not get started. When I did get started, I shook and buzzed. My mind scampered about. My hands didn't know what to do with themselves. Lines were drawn crookedly and needed to be redrawn, mistakes were made. At the end of my afternoon or evening I had accomplished very little, and I was so frustrated I could have cried at the time wasted.
But after I got over my shock and dismay at coffee's negative effects, I swore off it for the rest of the year.
I drank water. I munched on trail mix. I took deep breathes and short walks. I spent timed bursts working on each thing on my plate. I got more done. Coffee got me home after fourteen hour days without running off the road, yes, but for anything productive, it was useless.
These days, I don't drink much of anything caffienated. It gives me nightmares. Bad ones. I don't miss the shaky hands, the heart palpitations. I do miss coffee, thou lovely. The bitter bite behind the sweetest drink. But I had to wake up and simply smell the coffee.
--
I love coffee/ I love tea/ I love the java jive/ and it loves me.
And I love to sing that song, obviously. In 5 part harmony. Ask me nicely and I'll sing it for you. Ooo-ah! Ooo-ah!
But coffee, the eternal symbol of what you need to stay awake and get things done, is not all it's cracked up to be. In fact, one of my old graphic design resources calls it "nerve poison."
And when I was back in school, I discovered that, indeed, coffee was *counter* productive to my creative output.
The second year, I had so many projects going at once that I literally had no time to fart around. Any time I had any small space of time, I had to decided which project I was going to neglect next in favor of another.
So there I went to the coffee dispenser for a little mocha latte-something to keep me awake and jumpstart my energy.
I discovered to my chagrin that the coffee was making it harder to concentrate.
When I had those bits of time when I needed to be accomplishing *some*thing on my overwhelming list, I could not concentrate. I could not get started. When I did get started, I shook and buzzed. My mind scampered about. My hands didn't know what to do with themselves. Lines were drawn crookedly and needed to be redrawn, mistakes were made. At the end of my afternoon or evening I had accomplished very little, and I was so frustrated I could have cried at the time wasted.
But after I got over my shock and dismay at coffee's negative effects, I swore off it for the rest of the year.
I drank water. I munched on trail mix. I took deep breathes and short walks. I spent timed bursts working on each thing on my plate. I got more done. Coffee got me home after fourteen hour days without running off the road, yes, but for anything productive, it was useless.
These days, I don't drink much of anything caffienated. It gives me nightmares. Bad ones. I don't miss the shaky hands, the heart palpitations. I do miss coffee, thou lovely. The bitter bite behind the sweetest drink. But I had to wake up and simply smell the coffee.
--
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
NaBloPoMo - Wait for the Tides of Clothing
My proportions have shifted and the terrain is all new. The shape of my wardrobe has shifted too.
Last week I was making a sweep through my drawers and closets, looking for clothes to pass on and clothes I could actually wear.
I passed by my stash of pre-pregnancy jeans and thermal underwear that I will wear again some day. I looked over my collection of relatively new tops, rediscovering cuts, colors and patterns that I acquired mere months before I got pregnant. All those hip, dressy blouses make me happy, but most of them won't fit my nursing bosom! Who'da thunk it?
A sleek line of lovely, stylish slacks in browns and blacks takes up a fifth of the space. I tried one on just in case I had shed enough. Nope. Can't even get them over my hips. I didn't even look at the pile of dance dresses that I can't even think about wearing for some time. They are too tight, too slender, too short, too uncomfortable right now, but I'm not getting rid of any of them.
I have too many curves to stuff them into most of my old clothes, and not enough to continue wearing my pregnancy pants. Thank goodness I had the foresight to snag some women's XL comfy capaline thermal leggings. Thank goodness because it feels like it's freezing now, and it's not even winter yet, and I certainly can't wear my old ones.
So now I have this one pair of thermal leggings, two pairs of snuggly pajama pants, and two, two! pairs of pants I can wear out in public, not counting the loose black pants I often wear dancing or the baggy hiking pants that catch at my heels. Only one of those has pockets. It's the jeans I bought on sale whose size I guestimated. That's my new size, at least for the time being.
Then back in the closet, I notice as I'm going through the pants that one of them is... bigger than the others. It's, it's... my new current new size! I'm astonished. When did I buy that? I never wore it when I was pregnant, but somehow it fits me now. Make that *three* pairs of pants I can wear out in public, one of them stylishly cut in a chocolate brown winter fabric. Whoo! I feel like I've won the lottery. Except these pants also fall a little long on my heels.... which means that... I am losing weight?? I can't decide if I'm happy about being slightly smaller than before or sad that I don't quite fit this lovely pair of pants.
I assess my stores and judge I can make it through the Winter. Of my tops, most of my Tshirts are uncomfortably tight, and I can barely fit those dressy tops. I snagged some jewel-tone v-neck Ts on sale a couple months back, women's XL again, and I happily live in those. But for the winter months? I may have to rely on my stash of large, stretchy turtlenecks and accompanying sweaters.
And still I find things to pass on. That dress with over- and under-layers that I'll never wear. Those nursing bras that are just too damn tight. Other clothes I have already forgotten. I am tired of drawers full of clothing that doesn't fit, but I don't see being this curvy forever.
Then my friend emails me about her next women's clothing exchange. Oh, yes!!
In previous years, I've found comfy jeans and sweet jackets at her clothing exchanges, things that call your name even if you weren't looking. Maybe I'll find some clothes to fit my new shape without a large cash outlay. After all, the clothing exchange philosophy is: bring what you have, take home what you want.
I decide now is the time to let go of that Spring suit that I last wore at my best friend's bridal shower, and I haul myself over.
The house is apportioned by room. The front hall is littered with pairs of shoes and sandals. An upstairs bedroom is a safe zone to stash your own clothes. The front living room/library is children's and men's clothing. The back family room is awash in tops and jackets. The front bedroom is bottoms - pants and skirts, and suits, and the dining room has lingere and jewelry with some spare toiletries thrown in. The kitchen is munchies and baked goods to sustain us while we dig through the piles. The front bedroom, especially, is busy with women trying on item after item, searching through piles and modeling for each other. My friend Julie sits half collapsed in a chair after collecting her own piles of acquisitions.
I come home with another pair of comfy pants, some stretch jeans that actually fit and feel wonderful, another pair of lovely dress pants in the next size down, and nine tops in various colors and styles, including a slightly garish top I can wear calling and a Travel City top which is apparently an expensive brand of very nice travel fabric. Also, several men's jeans and dress pants in my husband's size, three snazzy shirts, a small pile of children's tights, socks and pants, and a small toy piano-xylaphone, just the right size for the little Wookie to bang on, which she does with enthusiasm. A good haul.
The clothes go out, the clothes come in. Sometimes the universe gives you just what you ordered. Sometimes you get something different but even better. Make that *five* pairs of fit-for-public pants. I'm definitely making it until Spring.
--
Last week I was making a sweep through my drawers and closets, looking for clothes to pass on and clothes I could actually wear.
I passed by my stash of pre-pregnancy jeans and thermal underwear that I will wear again some day. I looked over my collection of relatively new tops, rediscovering cuts, colors and patterns that I acquired mere months before I got pregnant. All those hip, dressy blouses make me happy, but most of them won't fit my nursing bosom! Who'da thunk it?
A sleek line of lovely, stylish slacks in browns and blacks takes up a fifth of the space. I tried one on just in case I had shed enough. Nope. Can't even get them over my hips. I didn't even look at the pile of dance dresses that I can't even think about wearing for some time. They are too tight, too slender, too short, too uncomfortable right now, but I'm not getting rid of any of them.
I have too many curves to stuff them into most of my old clothes, and not enough to continue wearing my pregnancy pants. Thank goodness I had the foresight to snag some women's XL comfy capaline thermal leggings. Thank goodness because it feels like it's freezing now, and it's not even winter yet, and I certainly can't wear my old ones.
So now I have this one pair of thermal leggings, two pairs of snuggly pajama pants, and two, two! pairs of pants I can wear out in public, not counting the loose black pants I often wear dancing or the baggy hiking pants that catch at my heels. Only one of those has pockets. It's the jeans I bought on sale whose size I guestimated. That's my new size, at least for the time being.
Then back in the closet, I notice as I'm going through the pants that one of them is... bigger than the others. It's, it's... my new current new size! I'm astonished. When did I buy that? I never wore it when I was pregnant, but somehow it fits me now. Make that *three* pairs of pants I can wear out in public, one of them stylishly cut in a chocolate brown winter fabric. Whoo! I feel like I've won the lottery. Except these pants also fall a little long on my heels.... which means that... I am losing weight?? I can't decide if I'm happy about being slightly smaller than before or sad that I don't quite fit this lovely pair of pants.
I assess my stores and judge I can make it through the Winter. Of my tops, most of my Tshirts are uncomfortably tight, and I can barely fit those dressy tops. I snagged some jewel-tone v-neck Ts on sale a couple months back, women's XL again, and I happily live in those. But for the winter months? I may have to rely on my stash of large, stretchy turtlenecks and accompanying sweaters.
And still I find things to pass on. That dress with over- and under-layers that I'll never wear. Those nursing bras that are just too damn tight. Other clothes I have already forgotten. I am tired of drawers full of clothing that doesn't fit, but I don't see being this curvy forever.
Then my friend emails me about her next women's clothing exchange. Oh, yes!!
In previous years, I've found comfy jeans and sweet jackets at her clothing exchanges, things that call your name even if you weren't looking. Maybe I'll find some clothes to fit my new shape without a large cash outlay. After all, the clothing exchange philosophy is: bring what you have, take home what you want.
I decide now is the time to let go of that Spring suit that I last wore at my best friend's bridal shower, and I haul myself over.
The house is apportioned by room. The front hall is littered with pairs of shoes and sandals. An upstairs bedroom is a safe zone to stash your own clothes. The front living room/library is children's and men's clothing. The back family room is awash in tops and jackets. The front bedroom is bottoms - pants and skirts, and suits, and the dining room has lingere and jewelry with some spare toiletries thrown in. The kitchen is munchies and baked goods to sustain us while we dig through the piles. The front bedroom, especially, is busy with women trying on item after item, searching through piles and modeling for each other. My friend Julie sits half collapsed in a chair after collecting her own piles of acquisitions.
I come home with another pair of comfy pants, some stretch jeans that actually fit and feel wonderful, another pair of lovely dress pants in the next size down, and nine tops in various colors and styles, including a slightly garish top I can wear calling and a Travel City top which is apparently an expensive brand of very nice travel fabric. Also, several men's jeans and dress pants in my husband's size, three snazzy shirts, a small pile of children's tights, socks and pants, and a small toy piano-xylaphone, just the right size for the little Wookie to bang on, which she does with enthusiasm. A good haul.
The clothes go out, the clothes come in. Sometimes the universe gives you just what you ordered. Sometimes you get something different but even better. Make that *five* pairs of fit-for-public pants. I'm definitely making it until Spring.
--
Monday, November 2, 2009
NaBloPoMo - Sanitizing Halloween
Halloween is over and done with for the year, but the pictures and stories continue.
I saw a couple of spectacular monarch butterflies - both on an adult and and infant. Another pair of favorites was a friend and her ten-year-old brother dressing up as Sarah P@lin and Joe the Plumber. P@lin had a stuffed moose afixed to her shoulder and a rifle over the other arm, a preppy look with sweater over white shirt, upsweep and glasses. Joe had various plumber accoutrements and a great, goofy smile. One young relative was going as gum on a shoe - wearing a sneaker on her head and wearing all pink. Haha! Another friend dressed as a LolCat, speaking only in LolCat-ese. It made me twitch, but it was funny! And then there are the suave dancing men who alway cross-dress with aplomb, or come up with alternative scary fairy godmothers we'd never dreamed of! I love how creative people get with their concepts.
One disturbing trend, though, is to forceably tone down the scary or "unacceptable" parts of the holiday for children, especially their costumes. There's an article from The New York Times talking about this very trend. My local paper also spent some space arguing for and against restrictions on how children be "allowed" to dress up. This seems to be a protective measure gone horribly awry.
I can understand the protective impulse myself - I would not want my child to have nightmares or feel threatened. However, I oppose sanitizing our culture on principle. I'm not talking about something like hate speech; I'm talking about freedom of personal expression. Why would we want to curb that expression as long as a person is not being destructive or breaking any laws? Thou shalt not make fun of a public figure? Ha! A time-honored tradition. We'd need more of a reason than that.
There's a fallacy that we can clean up and prettify everything in our world. I'm not convinced we can. And certainly not prettify everyone else according to our own ideals - that's just petty and controlling.
Even if a scary or strange costume supposedly represents some dark aspect of our personalities, sanitizing seems to think that one could banish the distasteful bits out of existence. Hit 'em with some bleach, and it'll all be shiny and happy. Oh, were it that simple.
Sanitizing something means the less pretty aspects go somewhere else, out of our sight but not really gone. As anyone from a psychology background could tell you, an anxiety-ridden impulse repressed will, under pressure, come out somewhere else. I'm wondering if encouraging (forcing) children to make bland costume choices is a societal version of squeezing zits. Thou shalt not be an unsightly ghoul. Begone!
And more, I'm not convinced we should sanitize our costumes, much less allow anyone to dictate what is acceptable. It's disturbing that we feel the need to control other people to that degree.
Maybe we feel so out of control that, like a teen with an eating disorder, we find ourselves controlling one of the few things we can, even if it hurts us, even if it's deadly for our long-term health. Never mind the consequences, clamp down on that NOW. No, no free-thinking creatives around here!
Yes, maybe our world is pretty scary and getting scarier. Maybe we as parents, teachers, et al feel anxious about protecting our children. (Maybe we even want to shelter ourselves.) So banishing scary costumes is going to fix those anxieties? I don't think so. Yes, it's fun to dress up in a scary persona. It's fun to dress up as a professional or political figure. I like the bad-pun costumes and the clever interpretations. I'm not crazy about the horrifying or overly-sexy costumes, but children encouraged to dress up as *food*, as cheese?? Is that considered "safe" enough? Lord, child!
I think Halloween is actually beneficial to allow us to air some of the darker and weirder aspects in a safe, even fun, way. There's the scary parts - ghouls and flesh-eating zombies - and the strange and disturbing - the dirty old man - and also the playful - cross dressing and silly puns, and making fun of cultural icons. Some costumes compel us to marvel at their design or the perfection of an idea well-executed such as one woman who wore a stunning peacock costume or an engineering friend who turned spray-painted cardboard and LED lights into an amazing transformer costume.
We can also make jokes about our society, the strange everyday events that play out in the media and our collective consciousness. How many Mich@el J@cksons were there out there this year, either in homage or as satire? I saw at least one "B@lloon Boy" wearing a poofy, silver oval hat.
We can dress to play with another aspect of our personality, or to play with something completely opposite from our usual persona. The good girl can flirt with the bad witch. We can step into something so unlike ourselves that our friends wonder who we are, and marvel at how well we act our part. In fact, the MORE opposite our costume is from our usual selves, the more stunning it can be. Who was that SaturdayNightLive character who, when confronted with some awkward scene of his own design, would triumphantly proclaim, "Acting!"? Ha! I fooled you! We can also emulate something we have not reached such as the Roman leisure class. Toga, anyone?
Children role-play all the time, trying to make sense of their world. What does it mean to be this person? What does it mean when I act a certain way? Telling a child that they are not allowed to dress in any way outside of "safe" territory is telling them that this business is way too serious, much more dangerous than it actually is. Our own fear would foster unease. Yes, I have a list of offensive personas that I would not let my children employ, but one night of acting does not a person make.
Dressing in a disguise was a way for us to protect ourselves against evil spirits during this time of thinning boundaries between us and the spirit world, according to the lore of the time. But now, most of us don't worry about confusing evil spirits; we just want to dress up and collect candy.
The brilliant thing about modern Halloween costume-dressing is that we are all allowed that commentary, that play-acting. How far we can go outside ourselves? And why the h3ll does someone need to tell us what is acceptable or not? Bland city, no thank you. Maybe next year, I'll go as a "costume police" and wag my finger at people. Tsk tsk!
--
I saw a couple of spectacular monarch butterflies - both on an adult and and infant. Another pair of favorites was a friend and her ten-year-old brother dressing up as Sarah P@lin and Joe the Plumber. P@lin had a stuffed moose afixed to her shoulder and a rifle over the other arm, a preppy look with sweater over white shirt, upsweep and glasses. Joe had various plumber accoutrements and a great, goofy smile. One young relative was going as gum on a shoe - wearing a sneaker on her head and wearing all pink. Haha! Another friend dressed as a LolCat, speaking only in LolCat-ese. It made me twitch, but it was funny! And then there are the suave dancing men who alway cross-dress with aplomb, or come up with alternative scary fairy godmothers we'd never dreamed of! I love how creative people get with their concepts.
One disturbing trend, though, is to forceably tone down the scary or "unacceptable" parts of the holiday for children, especially their costumes. There's an article from The New York Times talking about this very trend. My local paper also spent some space arguing for and against restrictions on how children be "allowed" to dress up. This seems to be a protective measure gone horribly awry.
I can understand the protective impulse myself - I would not want my child to have nightmares or feel threatened. However, I oppose sanitizing our culture on principle. I'm not talking about something like hate speech; I'm talking about freedom of personal expression. Why would we want to curb that expression as long as a person is not being destructive or breaking any laws? Thou shalt not make fun of a public figure? Ha! A time-honored tradition. We'd need more of a reason than that.
There's a fallacy that we can clean up and prettify everything in our world. I'm not convinced we can. And certainly not prettify everyone else according to our own ideals - that's just petty and controlling.
Even if a scary or strange costume supposedly represents some dark aspect of our personalities, sanitizing seems to think that one could banish the distasteful bits out of existence. Hit 'em with some bleach, and it'll all be shiny and happy. Oh, were it that simple.
Sanitizing something means the less pretty aspects go somewhere else, out of our sight but not really gone. As anyone from a psychology background could tell you, an anxiety-ridden impulse repressed will, under pressure, come out somewhere else. I'm wondering if encouraging (forcing) children to make bland costume choices is a societal version of squeezing zits. Thou shalt not be an unsightly ghoul. Begone!
And more, I'm not convinced we should sanitize our costumes, much less allow anyone to dictate what is acceptable. It's disturbing that we feel the need to control other people to that degree.
Maybe we feel so out of control that, like a teen with an eating disorder, we find ourselves controlling one of the few things we can, even if it hurts us, even if it's deadly for our long-term health. Never mind the consequences, clamp down on that NOW. No, no free-thinking creatives around here!
Yes, maybe our world is pretty scary and getting scarier. Maybe we as parents, teachers, et al feel anxious about protecting our children. (Maybe we even want to shelter ourselves.) So banishing scary costumes is going to fix those anxieties? I don't think so. Yes, it's fun to dress up in a scary persona. It's fun to dress up as a professional or political figure. I like the bad-pun costumes and the clever interpretations. I'm not crazy about the horrifying or overly-sexy costumes, but children encouraged to dress up as *food*, as cheese?? Is that considered "safe" enough? Lord, child!
I think Halloween is actually beneficial to allow us to air some of the darker and weirder aspects in a safe, even fun, way. There's the scary parts - ghouls and flesh-eating zombies - and the strange and disturbing - the dirty old man - and also the playful - cross dressing and silly puns, and making fun of cultural icons. Some costumes compel us to marvel at their design or the perfection of an idea well-executed such as one woman who wore a stunning peacock costume or an engineering friend who turned spray-painted cardboard and LED lights into an amazing transformer costume.
We can also make jokes about our society, the strange everyday events that play out in the media and our collective consciousness. How many Mich@el J@cksons were there out there this year, either in homage or as satire? I saw at least one "B@lloon Boy" wearing a poofy, silver oval hat.
We can dress to play with another aspect of our personality, or to play with something completely opposite from our usual persona. The good girl can flirt with the bad witch. We can step into something so unlike ourselves that our friends wonder who we are, and marvel at how well we act our part. In fact, the MORE opposite our costume is from our usual selves, the more stunning it can be. Who was that SaturdayNightLive character who, when confronted with some awkward scene of his own design, would triumphantly proclaim, "Acting!"? Ha! I fooled you! We can also emulate something we have not reached such as the Roman leisure class. Toga, anyone?
Children role-play all the time, trying to make sense of their world. What does it mean to be this person? What does it mean when I act a certain way? Telling a child that they are not allowed to dress in any way outside of "safe" territory is telling them that this business is way too serious, much more dangerous than it actually is. Our own fear would foster unease. Yes, I have a list of offensive personas that I would not let my children employ, but one night of acting does not a person make.
Dressing in a disguise was a way for us to protect ourselves against evil spirits during this time of thinning boundaries between us and the spirit world, according to the lore of the time. But now, most of us don't worry about confusing evil spirits; we just want to dress up and collect candy.
The brilliant thing about modern Halloween costume-dressing is that we are all allowed that commentary, that play-acting. How far we can go outside ourselves? And why the h3ll does someone need to tell us what is acceptable or not? Bland city, no thank you. Maybe next year, I'll go as a "costume police" and wag my finger at people. Tsk tsk!
--
Sunday, November 1, 2009
NaBloPoMo Strategizing
NaBloPoMo, Day 1
The first thing on my mind as we start of this month of writing is, how am I going to get through the whole month? As with everything else I'm trying to do theses days, it doesn't happen without a lot of organized intent and strategic prep work.
Number one on my list is to brainstorm a list of topics. I worked on that while nursing this afternoon. I have about 39 things on my list, although how many of those I will be able to turn into something worth posting is another question!
Number two, pre-write while nursing. It helps to organize my thoughts to think about a topic, jotting down specific points or phrases or how they might relate to each other. Then when I start to write, my brain is a little more primed to the topic at hand.
Number three, write a little on a few different things each day. Sometimes it takes a while to collect my thoughts on a topic to do it justice. So always having a few things being worked on at once helps the odds of something being *finished* on a given day.
Number four, used timed writing. Rather than trying to write perfectly, just write. Set the topic and have at it!
Number five, finish up what I can on each day. If a piece is far enough along, I can do a little editing without too much pain and aggravation.
Number six, don't worry too much about editing! Sometimes, a no-edit post is the best way to get it done. Hack it out if necessary.
Number seven, go if I have to go or the baby needs me. Like now.
--
The first thing on my mind as we start of this month of writing is, how am I going to get through the whole month? As with everything else I'm trying to do theses days, it doesn't happen without a lot of organized intent and strategic prep work.
Number one on my list is to brainstorm a list of topics. I worked on that while nursing this afternoon. I have about 39 things on my list, although how many of those I will be able to turn into something worth posting is another question!
Number two, pre-write while nursing. It helps to organize my thoughts to think about a topic, jotting down specific points or phrases or how they might relate to each other. Then when I start to write, my brain is a little more primed to the topic at hand.
Number three, write a little on a few different things each day. Sometimes it takes a while to collect my thoughts on a topic to do it justice. So always having a few things being worked on at once helps the odds of something being *finished* on a given day.
Number four, used timed writing. Rather than trying to write perfectly, just write. Set the topic and have at it!
Number five, finish up what I can on each day. If a piece is far enough along, I can do a little editing without too much pain and aggravation.
Number six, don't worry too much about editing! Sometimes, a no-edit post is the best way to get it done. Hack it out if necessary.
Number seven, go if I have to go or the baby needs me. Like now.
--
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