It always starts with just one little thing, right? You notice a tiny bit of dirt on the floor, and then six hours later, all of your furniture is on the front lawn, because you had to pull up the carpet to vacuum underneath.
No? So that's just me?
Well, anyway, the furniture's not really on the front lawn, because I'm sitting on it. But the point is that I started doing just one thing, and then ended up down a seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time rabbit hole of what could possibly go wrong. It's figurative furniture, on an imaginary lawn. The less said, the better. Nothing to see here. Move along.
*****
I learned a bunch of new things today, including some of-the-moment Maryland teenage slang that I won't bother to define here, because what is this, Urban Dictionary? We had hoped to see Barry Trotz win his 700th game as an NHL coach, but what we saw instead was a sad beatdown of my beloved Capitals by the Nashville Predators, of all teams. And why is there hockey in Nashville, anyway? I'm not worried; they're still the best team in the NHL.
Nashville? Whatever.
*****
I'm now on the second volume of The Cazalet Chronicles. At the end of the first book, the extended Cazalet family and all of its servants and connections were breathing a sigh of relief as Neville Chamberlain returned home from Germany, having made a dishonorable agreement with Hitler that forestalled war, which had seemed inevitable. As we all know now (and as most of the Cazalets knew even then), the reprieve was only temporary. As the first book opens, the reprieve has ended and the family is readying for another terrible war, barely 20 years after the last one, which was supposed to end all wars.
My computer has been behaving strangely. I cleaned the disk (I don't really know what that means, but I did it) and ran a virus scan, and now everything is fine, but I'm afraid that this too is a temporary reprieve.
*****
Yes, I know exactly how bad that sounded. That's the point.
Late last week, I went to check my to-do list, and I realized that I just didn't care very much about any of the various tasks and chores that I had assigned to myself. More than that, though--I didn't even care about the list itself. I had actually already done two of the things, and hadn't even bothered to cross them off. What is wrong with me, I thought. But I knew what was wrong. The fog had descended again.
Sadness isn't the worst part of the periodic depressive episodes that plague me. The lethargy and lack of interest in regular normal things is worse. And worse still is the inward focus and self-absorption that make it quite normal to compare a potential hard drive crash to a world war that killed 50 million people. Thankfully, this episode is coming to an end almost as quickly as it began. Which means that I have some catching up to do. I haven't crossed off a single thing this week.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Monday, February 20, 2017
One thing (or two)
It's stupid to cry over a bad haircut, isn't it? Yes, I know. But sometimes the stupid things are the things you cry about. And by "you," I mean "me." Or "I." Use the subjective or objective case, as appropriate. ***** I had 76 visitors in one day; rather a high number for me. I wasn't going to post anything this week, but I'd hate to disappoint such a huge reading public. But I don't really have much to say, so I'll just share this little collection of pictures that I took yesterday at the National Gallery of Art. I took many more; maybe I'll post them another time. I have a weakness for museum gift shops and the NGA's gift shops are the best. I bought a canvas tote bag, because I love canvas tote bags; and a book, Every Person in New York, by the great Jason Polan. Great art can't fix a bad haircut, but it makes me feel a little better. And my hair will grow. *****  |
| The Lo Shu: The number of the total is fifty; of these forty-nine are used. |
 |
| Robert Henri, Snow in New York. |
 |
| Andy Warhol, A Boy for Meg. This, I suppose, really is "fake news." |
 |
| Edouard Vuillard, Child Wearing a Red Scarf. |
 |
| George Bellows, New York. |
 |
| Jackson Pollock, Number 7 |
 |
| On Kawara, One Thing, 1965, Viet-Nam. Well, two things, actually--I was born in 1965. |
 |
| Pierre Bonnard, Paris, Rue de Parme on Bastille Day |
 |
| Alfred Stieglitz. City of Ambition. |
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| Pierre Bonnard, Work Table |
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Management not responsible for the next 15 minutes of your life
I have no idea, really, what to write about this week. I suppose I don't need to write anything, but I've been posting on a more or less weekly basis, and I feel compelled for some reason to keep that up.
*****
It's Friday night. My husband is working. My kids have no plans and are happily hanging out at home. I cook almost every night, so on Friday nights, we order pizza, or I make some kind of frozen non-food. Tonight it was chicken taquitos. I put them in the oven, determined not to touch them myself, but then halfway through my third one, I had to admit: Frozen chicken taquitos are delicious.
*****
Now it's Saturday morning. I watched news for a little while when I got up. I know that I should wean myself from MSNBC, but I can't look away from the daily Trump outrage onslaught. It's not his policies that bother me so much (although most of them are bad enough); it's the in-your-face contempt for the law, for the opposition, for the citizenry, and for everything and everyone other than Trump and his family and his minions. I'm not surprised, of course. If I give Trump credit for anything, it's for not ever having pretended to be anything that he isn't (other than fit to hold public office, that is.) His supporters worked really hard to get all of us to believe that Donald Trump the swaggering, bullying, ignorant lout was just an act; all we had to do was vote for him and he'd reveal himself as Donald Trump, statesman and patriotic billionaire, willing to sacrifice his own interests, just to serve his beloved country. And just enough people believed that story. And at 12:01 PM on January 20, he was exactly the same Donald Trump that he'd always been, but now as leader of the free (for now) world. And we're stuck with him, maybe for four years, maybe even for eight.
*****
When I was really young, living on my own in a tiny apartment in West Philadelphia, I used to wash my clothes at the laundromat around the corner. There were signs all over the place--on the washers and dryers, on the machines that dispensed tiny boxes of detergent, on the walls and doors--reminding customers to keep track of their clothes. "Management not responsible for lost articles." "Please collect all items before you leave." "Management not responsible for damaged articles." My friends and I used to call every piece of clothing an item, or an article. "I like that article," you'd say, complimenting a friend on her Benetton sweater; or "I'm broke, but I have to go shopping--I don't have a single item to wear." I remember this at odd times, like when I'm folding laundry. Or like when I watched Kellyanne Conway's QVC appearance. "Go buy Ivanka's articles," I thought, paraphrasing Kellyanne. "It's a wonderful line--I have several items myself." That was apropos of nothing, of course. Except that Kellyanne's probably lying, even about that--she probably doesn't own a single Ivanka article.
*****
It's Saturday evening now, and we're all home again, watching the Capitals play the Anaheim Ducks. Never mind the absurdity of the existence of ice hockey in Southern California nor the ridiculousness of an NHL team named after a Disney movie. Hockey is awesome, especially Washington Capitals hockey. This is a particularly good time to be a Capitals fan--Alexander Ovechkin's 1,000th career point, Nicklas Backstrom's 500th assist, the NHL's 100th anniversary, and Fatima Al Ali, all in one season. How improbable that a young woman who plays for the United Arab Emirates' women's national team (itself an improbability) would be discovered by retired Capital Peter Bondra, who would learn that Fatima is a Capitals fan and who would then think to himself that it would be awesome to get the Capitals to fly her to Washington to see a game and to meet Alex Ovechkin, her favorite player? And how much more unlikely that he'd actually propose his idea to the team, who would say "sure, why not?" And so Fatima did come to Washington, and she met her favorite players, and she dropped the ceremonial puck at Thursday night's game against the Red Wings, and took a selfie, right there on center ice, with Alex Ovechkin and Hendrik Zetterberg smiling behind her.
Like most Americans, I have mixed feelings about Islam. It's stupid to pretend that the mass shooting in San Bernardino was just another incident of "gun violence;" or that no-go neighborhoods in Paris and Berlin and Brussels are an invention of far-right Islamophobes, and that the citizens of those cities who live in fear of mass shootings or vehicle assaults are cowardly xenophobes. But we have to find a way to defend our own freedom, without denying it to others. We can be the country that firmly refuses to allow fanatics of any faith to impose their beliefs on the rest of us, and we can also invite a devout female Muslim hockey fan to share the ice with the greatest hockey player in the world, smiling and radiant in hijab and a Capitals jersey.
*****
It's Sunday now, and a post that started on frozen taquitos ended on radical Islam and world peace through hockey, with a few gratuitous shots at the Trump administration, just for fun. I literally cleaned out a cabinet, right in the middle of writing this very paragraph. Adult ADD is no joke. The Capitals won (again) last night, and Fatima Al Ali is probably home in the UAE now, and I have plenty of items to wash and fold, and plenty of things to clean. Stick around; I'll be watching hockey and organizing cabinets until spring.
*****
It's Friday night. My husband is working. My kids have no plans and are happily hanging out at home. I cook almost every night, so on Friday nights, we order pizza, or I make some kind of frozen non-food. Tonight it was chicken taquitos. I put them in the oven, determined not to touch them myself, but then halfway through my third one, I had to admit: Frozen chicken taquitos are delicious.
*****
Now it's Saturday morning. I watched news for a little while when I got up. I know that I should wean myself from MSNBC, but I can't look away from the daily Trump outrage onslaught. It's not his policies that bother me so much (although most of them are bad enough); it's the in-your-face contempt for the law, for the opposition, for the citizenry, and for everything and everyone other than Trump and his family and his minions. I'm not surprised, of course. If I give Trump credit for anything, it's for not ever having pretended to be anything that he isn't (other than fit to hold public office, that is.) His supporters worked really hard to get all of us to believe that Donald Trump the swaggering, bullying, ignorant lout was just an act; all we had to do was vote for him and he'd reveal himself as Donald Trump, statesman and patriotic billionaire, willing to sacrifice his own interests, just to serve his beloved country. And just enough people believed that story. And at 12:01 PM on January 20, he was exactly the same Donald Trump that he'd always been, but now as leader of the free (for now) world. And we're stuck with him, maybe for four years, maybe even for eight.
*****
When I was really young, living on my own in a tiny apartment in West Philadelphia, I used to wash my clothes at the laundromat around the corner. There were signs all over the place--on the washers and dryers, on the machines that dispensed tiny boxes of detergent, on the walls and doors--reminding customers to keep track of their clothes. "Management not responsible for lost articles." "Please collect all items before you leave." "Management not responsible for damaged articles." My friends and I used to call every piece of clothing an item, or an article. "I like that article," you'd say, complimenting a friend on her Benetton sweater; or "I'm broke, but I have to go shopping--I don't have a single item to wear." I remember this at odd times, like when I'm folding laundry. Or like when I watched Kellyanne Conway's QVC appearance. "Go buy Ivanka's articles," I thought, paraphrasing Kellyanne. "It's a wonderful line--I have several items myself." That was apropos of nothing, of course. Except that Kellyanne's probably lying, even about that--she probably doesn't own a single Ivanka article.
*****
It's Saturday evening now, and we're all home again, watching the Capitals play the Anaheim Ducks. Never mind the absurdity of the existence of ice hockey in Southern California nor the ridiculousness of an NHL team named after a Disney movie. Hockey is awesome, especially Washington Capitals hockey. This is a particularly good time to be a Capitals fan--Alexander Ovechkin's 1,000th career point, Nicklas Backstrom's 500th assist, the NHL's 100th anniversary, and Fatima Al Ali, all in one season. How improbable that a young woman who plays for the United Arab Emirates' women's national team (itself an improbability) would be discovered by retired Capital Peter Bondra, who would learn that Fatima is a Capitals fan and who would then think to himself that it would be awesome to get the Capitals to fly her to Washington to see a game and to meet Alex Ovechkin, her favorite player? And how much more unlikely that he'd actually propose his idea to the team, who would say "sure, why not?" And so Fatima did come to Washington, and she met her favorite players, and she dropped the ceremonial puck at Thursday night's game against the Red Wings, and took a selfie, right there on center ice, with Alex Ovechkin and Hendrik Zetterberg smiling behind her.
Like most Americans, I have mixed feelings about Islam. It's stupid to pretend that the mass shooting in San Bernardino was just another incident of "gun violence;" or that no-go neighborhoods in Paris and Berlin and Brussels are an invention of far-right Islamophobes, and that the citizens of those cities who live in fear of mass shootings or vehicle assaults are cowardly xenophobes. But we have to find a way to defend our own freedom, without denying it to others. We can be the country that firmly refuses to allow fanatics of any faith to impose their beliefs on the rest of us, and we can also invite a devout female Muslim hockey fan to share the ice with the greatest hockey player in the world, smiling and radiant in hijab and a Capitals jersey.
*****
It's Sunday now, and a post that started on frozen taquitos ended on radical Islam and world peace through hockey, with a few gratuitous shots at the Trump administration, just for fun. I literally cleaned out a cabinet, right in the middle of writing this very paragraph. Adult ADD is no joke. The Capitals won (again) last night, and Fatima Al Ali is probably home in the UAE now, and I have plenty of items to wash and fold, and plenty of things to clean. Stick around; I'll be watching hockey and organizing cabinets until spring.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
Peace in our time
I like to finish what I start. Sometimes it takes longer than one might expect; over 25 years, for example, to finish my bachelor's degree (Summa cum Laude, of course, but still--25 years!) If I start reading a book, I will usually force myself to finish it, no matter what.
Or rather, I used to force myself to finish it. In the last six months, I've abandoned four books. A combination of too-busyness and age have made me hyper-conscious of how relatively little time I have in the world; how relatively little time any of us have, in fact. I have a lot to do, not just in a day, but forever. A lot that I need to do before I die.
*****
Well. That took an unexpected turn, didn't it? Maybe I need to turn off MSNBC for five minutes. Back to the books.
Walker Percy, of all people, wrote a satirical self-help book called Lost in the Cosmos, which was published in 1983. I'd never heard of it, and I thought that Walker Percy had died years before 1983, but Lost in the Cosmos ended up on my bookshelf one way or another, and I started to read it. Maybe my sense of humor is lacking, because despite tons of reviews that describe this book as hilariously funny in a sly tongue-in-cheek way, I just didn't get it. And I find also (age-related again, probably) that I just don't have any patience with casual sexism, even taking historical context into account. So I bailed on Walker Percy, right in the middle of chapter 2.
That meant that I had to find something else to read. I started on Christina Stead's House of All Nations, which is the kind of book that I usually love, but I put it down about 10 pages in. Maybe I'll try to read it again, but not now. I'm not really sure why I didn't want to finish it in the first place. It's a period novel set in pre-WWII Europe. What's not to love? Too French, maybe, in the way that a novel about the French written by an Australian (or any other non-French author) would be. So much jaded upper-class infidelity and intrigue; so much sophisticated elegance and glamour, and all in the first chapter. I couldn't keep up that pace for 300 or more pages.
House of All Nations is set in Paris in the late 1930s, and the late 1930s is an historical period of particular interest to me, especially now. Two years or so ago, I was sure that the world order that most of us Americans and Europeans have taken for granted for the last 70 years or so was soon to collapse. I wrote about this here, and here, and here. In fact, I've been preoccupied with political upheaval and the breakdown of civilization for pretty much my whole life, from age 10 or so on. I'm a lot of fun to hang out with.
Part of this is just because I'm a recreational worrier. The worst case scenario is usually the default option for me. But now, I feel that I have a real, actual reason to worry, based on just looking at and listening to the world. Until very recently, I didn't talk much about the end of the world as we know it (or once knew it, because it's probably already too late), even with my friends. I was sure that they'd think I was crazy. Now, though, I'm right in the mainstream. It's 1999. Everyone is waiting for everything to hit the fan.
*****
But again, back to the original problem: What to read? I didn't want to finish House of All Nations, but I did want want to return to the mid 1930s, and not just because I wanted a how-to manual for history that's about to repeat itself. A few weeks ago, I bought a Kindle edition of The Cazalet Chronicles, so I started on that, and now I'm pretty sure that I'm going to accomplish nothing until I read all thousand-plus pages. SO good. I have no idea how it's possible that I had never heard of either the books (it's a series) or Elizabeth Jane Howard, the author, but for the next few days, I'll be all agog as the Cazelets and all of their servants breeze through 1937 and 1938 without a care in the world, only to be thrown headlong into the cataclysm of 1939.
I almost feel sorry for them, long-dead imaginary people that they are. They have no idea what's coming.
Or rather, I used to force myself to finish it. In the last six months, I've abandoned four books. A combination of too-busyness and age have made me hyper-conscious of how relatively little time I have in the world; how relatively little time any of us have, in fact. I have a lot to do, not just in a day, but forever. A lot that I need to do before I die.
*****
Well. That took an unexpected turn, didn't it? Maybe I need to turn off MSNBC for five minutes. Back to the books.
Walker Percy, of all people, wrote a satirical self-help book called Lost in the Cosmos, which was published in 1983. I'd never heard of it, and I thought that Walker Percy had died years before 1983, but Lost in the Cosmos ended up on my bookshelf one way or another, and I started to read it. Maybe my sense of humor is lacking, because despite tons of reviews that describe this book as hilariously funny in a sly tongue-in-cheek way, I just didn't get it. And I find also (age-related again, probably) that I just don't have any patience with casual sexism, even taking historical context into account. So I bailed on Walker Percy, right in the middle of chapter 2.
That meant that I had to find something else to read. I started on Christina Stead's House of All Nations, which is the kind of book that I usually love, but I put it down about 10 pages in. Maybe I'll try to read it again, but not now. I'm not really sure why I didn't want to finish it in the first place. It's a period novel set in pre-WWII Europe. What's not to love? Too French, maybe, in the way that a novel about the French written by an Australian (or any other non-French author) would be. So much jaded upper-class infidelity and intrigue; so much sophisticated elegance and glamour, and all in the first chapter. I couldn't keep up that pace for 300 or more pages.
House of All Nations is set in Paris in the late 1930s, and the late 1930s is an historical period of particular interest to me, especially now. Two years or so ago, I was sure that the world order that most of us Americans and Europeans have taken for granted for the last 70 years or so was soon to collapse. I wrote about this here, and here, and here. In fact, I've been preoccupied with political upheaval and the breakdown of civilization for pretty much my whole life, from age 10 or so on. I'm a lot of fun to hang out with.
Part of this is just because I'm a recreational worrier. The worst case scenario is usually the default option for me. But now, I feel that I have a real, actual reason to worry, based on just looking at and listening to the world. Until very recently, I didn't talk much about the end of the world as we know it (or once knew it, because it's probably already too late), even with my friends. I was sure that they'd think I was crazy. Now, though, I'm right in the mainstream. It's 1999. Everyone is waiting for everything to hit the fan.
*****
But again, back to the original problem: What to read? I didn't want to finish House of All Nations, but I did want want to return to the mid 1930s, and not just because I wanted a how-to manual for history that's about to repeat itself. A few weeks ago, I bought a Kindle edition of The Cazalet Chronicles, so I started on that, and now I'm pretty sure that I'm going to accomplish nothing until I read all thousand-plus pages. SO good. I have no idea how it's possible that I had never heard of either the books (it's a series) or Elizabeth Jane Howard, the author, but for the next few days, I'll be all agog as the Cazelets and all of their servants breeze through 1937 and 1938 without a care in the world, only to be thrown headlong into the cataclysm of 1939.
I almost feel sorry for them, long-dead imaginary people that they are. They have no idea what's coming.
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