Tuesday, December 1, 2009

The Swing of the Pendulum

For a change, the opposite problem is true: I have too much in my head and don't know what to write about, causing a sort of bottleneck situation so that everything is all jumbled up and incomplete. Dammit. Thoughts on:

- Lou Dobbs's interview on Telemundo
- The White House party crashers
- Narcissism ... (see WH party crashers)
- personal responsibility
- the education system

... and lots of other completely banal oddities that will in no way have any effect on the world. Still, I'm here to rant.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Head's spinning.

I feel like I should be writing something, but I just can't seem to get my act together.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Blown Away


No, I don't look like that.

When I was in high school, I was introduced to art. I'd never been allowed to take what were deemed "frivolous" elective classes, but by the last two years of high school, I had taken all the classes there were to take and finally thought I'd give art a looksie. By the middle of the first semester, I'd been pulled off of the class syllabus and given a corner of the studio with an easel and all the paints I could reach from those back wall cupboards.

The first thing I ever painted in my life was a watercolor in the pointilist genre, the thematic unit of the class. We each got our 18 x 24 paper, rinsed it, stretched it, taped it, and let it dry over night. By the time I got my corner of the studio, my canvases were changing in medium as well as size. I bought large matte boards and eventually slats of plywood. My teacher finally had to put a stop to the growing trend. There was no where to store my paintings.

I honestly believe I would have continued to let my canvases grow. I would have eventually wanted a wall. But at no time did I ever make the connection with graffiti or even think of trying spray cans, even when I experimented with the air brush. Maybe it's in my genetic build. Maybe all those muralists brushed off on me in some imperceptible way.

I still want a wall. I have absolutely no idea what I'd put on it, or if it's even in me anymore. But the idea of my own wall still makes me salivate.

Anais Thought

There are two writers that I repeatedly hook together. When I think of one, I think of the other. Nin and Rand. I've not read either, so whether there's a subconscious reason for this pairing is still to be deciphered.

Yes, you read right. I've read neither. I'm not really sure why. Ok, I'm sort of theorizing about Rand, and they are reasons that are completely illogical and founded in emotive ties. We'll get to that another day. As for Nin, I've only peripherally heard of her persona more than about her writing, and I think I'm responding to the hesitation to jump on the bandwagon.

When I take on a famous writer, I want to be sure that the opinion that I eventually form is independent of others' and that I'm actually open minded enough to ensure that I'm going to absorb the writing in the spirit in which it was written. I tend to want to "side" with the writer. A certain premeditated empathy of the "benefit of the doubt" approach. I want to like the writing, but I want to like it for my own reasons.

I don't know much about Nin, but the quote:
"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."

...very much appeals to my thinking. Not that I have a man. So we have here a bit of a contradiction. IF I were to have a man, this is the kind of self-assuredness with which I would approach choosing him. The irony being that I'm currently about as little self assured as I've ever been, and I don't have the vaguest interest in a man.

So, really, the quote is the mother of all hypotheticals.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Poe's Enigma


I was in college when I heard a reading of The Raven on the radio. It was John Astin interpreting, and he blew me away. I'd always liked the poem, but he gave it life, suspense and an urgency I hadn't read into it before.

As I learned over the years, Poe became a sort of symbol of the unresolved. There's a frustration, a feeling of helplessness that I get from him. The Raven ends with the narrator unable to rid himself of the infamous bird. Metaphoric or not, the sense of impotence is acute.

Then there's the mystery of Poe, himself, and the questions behind his death. I'm currently reading The Poe Shadow, which addresses this, but I'm constantly aware that this is a book of fiction and that the reality is that it is likely that the circumstances behind his death will always be a riddle. Then there's the rose at his tombstone every year.

I don't do well with the unanswered. I like things resolved, wrapped up in a nice little bow. It is in my nature to believe that a methodical approach yields answers. I guess that is why I always come back to Poe. I always feel like I'm not done with him. Maybe if I read the Raven one more time, that damned bird will leave the pallid bust of Pallas once and for all. Maybe the answer to Poe's death will one day be discovered and I'll get to see a two hour documentary on the whole thing on the History Channel. Maybe the woman with the rose will make herself known.

Then, of course, there's that tiny bit of me that understands that it's good for me to not always know all the answers. And sometimes a bit of mystery is better cherished for its anticipation than for the possibility of resolution. Maybe there are some things we just shouldn't know. Maybe the mystery is what gives it the appeal that it has, so without it, it would cease to be attractive.

I guess it doesn't matter. I think of Poe every day because there are plenty of crows in our region. I like to watch them, they're quite intelligent.

Watch John Astin recite The Raven.

So seemlessly is the poem's influence on me, that I forgot to mention the obvious: the name of this blog is directly derived from the poem.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

A Moment of Pause

I’m going to walk a fine line here. It’s a precarious endeavor, for me, because I usually prefer to keep the more emotive details of my life private. I’ve debated about this for days and decided that I created this blog so that I could reflect on the events of my life, be they positive or negative.


With that said, what I write is strictly to maneuver around my own thoughts. The words that get documented are reflections of how my mind is working at the time. They are not meant to appeal to the reader and garner any sort of gratuitous empathy or discomfort. In other words, what I write won’t always be cheery, but I don’t write it to get words of comfort or encouragement. I write to understand myself, to place my thoughts in some sort of space in my mind that will give them meaning, or logic.


A very close friend passed away just over a week ago. She had been suffering from leukemia for less than a year. From what I understand, the progression was more swift than usual. I won’t go into details about her because it’s not my place. My response to her death is about me and how I am dealing with it. I’m not sure, even as I write this, what, exactly, I should be writing. I’m noticing that I have a tendency to shut down. It’s not denial so much as my brain not allowing me to process it completely. I think I’m feeding myself bits and pieces of it, a little at a time so that it will be digestible.


I bring it up because it explains why I’ve been absent from much of my writing for a while. I also bring it up because it will explain much of what will be appearing here. Yes, there will be references to mourning, but it is not my way to wallow in melodramatic gestures. If you look at my margin, it is actually true that I have been reading The Poe Shadow. It just so happens that I had the image of the raven on a skull in my files, so I post it for the week because it ties to the reading that I’m currently doing. So as much as it wasn’t inspired by Julie’s death, it does reference a certain morbidity, however unintentional.


As for the Wilde quote:
Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

I’ll admit that this one was selected to reflect my current state. But I specifically chose it because it was (in my opinion) actually a comforting view of death. Anyone who knows me can tell you that my absolute favorite writer is Wilde. I love his unapologetic wit, his cynicism and willingness to brush off anything too heavy. I read these words and thought them perfectly appropriate. If ever he finally said something sincere without being sappy, these words are it. Having a similar attitude, myself, they were perfect for me and I can’t imagine anyone being able to say anything more comforting without appealing to over-sentimentality.


So there you have it. This is what I’m currently dealing with, though, I prefer to walk through it alone, at my pace. I’ll likely start writing again, unrelated to the present situation, and will go back to my routine.


Thanks to anyone still reading.

Kings and Queens


Songs that appeal to my sense of the epic, the grand, and the layered.



Lyrics

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Remember me?

Yep, I've been missing in action as of late. A series of real life obstacles kind of threw me. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to hold my attention elsewhere.

I'll come back. Not sure exactly when. My brain just needs to relax, I suspect.

Stand by.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Music for Me

This week's Andrum's Conundrum:

If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one ability or quality, what would it be?

... was relatively easy again, for me. I've always wanted to be able to play either classical guitar or the piano. I think I might do well with piano since I picked up on typing quite easily in junior high [see: Bleeding Heart]. Back then, we were taught proper typing, as in exactly which finger is supposed to hit which key, and proper positions for your fingers. We got tested for accuracy as well as speed. I topped off at 50 and have been stuck there ever since. I understand that this is not particularly great, but it does the job for me.

As much as I believe I'd pick up on the piano quickly, the truth is that I'd prefer the guitar. I'm not sure why, but I'm sure its portability comes into play. Still, as much as I'd like to learn it, I suspect the learning process would be a frustrating one for me. Just as when you learn to type (in a formal setting) and start out unable to reconcile the keys to your finger positions, I'm sure that those hand positions would be the end of me. Nothing feels less natural than that. I'd like to be able to just play already, and not feel like I'm twisting my fingers into impossible contortions.

I'd like to be at a point where playing the guitar comes naturally. I don't have any kind of deep seeded need to fill stadiums or sign recording contracts. I just want to play at gatherings. Some of my favorite gatherings happened in Mexico City. Friends would show up with a variety of food and drink, and various instruments, and we'd sit around and hear everyone's latest composition, or sing some of the favorites. I always wanted to join in.

So that's my answer.

The King is Right

"If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that." --- Stephen King

Hence the addition of Books I've read so far in 2009 to my margin. I've done better about reading this year and last year. Before that, I was made to believe that such leisurely activities were marks of laziness and that time could better be employed for something constructive.

I say, "Define 'constructive'."

I've re-invited the vice of reading back into my life as of late, and have made it a habit, once again, to carry a book in my purse at all times. I used to get around to a couple of books during vacation time and the holidays, but now I'm averaging one every couple of weeks. Mostly my reading happens on breaks at work, in waiting rooms for doctors and such, and before bed.

The list of books awaiting their bond with me is staggering. I've only managed to document a fraction of them on www.goodreads.com mostly because I'm too lazy to rumage through my shelves and decipher which ones I've already input and which still need to be listed. But one day I shall sit patiently and update my list so it reflects the actual project that I have before me.

And I shall likely panic.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Password, Please


Today I had a pretty shitty day. I shan’t go into specifics, mostly because they’re pretty tiresome. But I mention this because as it so happens, it’s a useful segue to the image of the week:

Back in college I had a fascination with doors. It didn’t take a genius to see the Freudian foundations of it all: I had a significant wall built around me and doors – particularly very well shut doors – were highly relatable. I'm not talking about the kind with window panes so you can look inside. Nor the kind that look like they’re right out of Mayberry. “My” doors were always impenetrable. Somewhere in the garage are a couple of large artist portfolios. You know the kind, they look like a huge, flat suitcase and zip up on three sides. In one of those suitcases is a watercolor of a door I painted. It’s a monochrome, like this one, only in orange. It’s a wood door, like something you’d find in an old English garden, as an entrance to a shed or old cottage. But it’s boarded up. It has two heavy wooden planks across it, nailed to each side of the door. There’s no gettin’ through that bugger.

This door reminded me of that one. You can feel the weight of the steel. The solidity with which it is sealed. It’s a good door.

Today I want my doors.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Bleeding Heart


I'm sure it's easy to imagine that I selected this as my image of the week because it's a typewriter and has to do with writing. That I must have a nostalgic reaction to it, and sigh at the romanticism of the click click.

Nope.

When I saw this image, I was thirteen again and flirting with my junior high crush in a conversation about M*A*S*H. You see, back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, there were no computers and so junior high elective classes were typically Art, Typing, Home Ec... that kind of thing. I took typing and the monstrosities that we worked on looked like the one in the picture. Big, honkin' things made out of metal and impossible to lift from the table.

Where do Glen and M*A*S*H fit into the picture? Well, as fate would have it, he was seated next to me when he was added to the class a bit late. We already knew each other from all our core classes, so strangers we were not. But here I had him all to myself. You see, I was bussed in to a school where everyone knew each other since kindergarten because it was the neighborhood school. But a handful of us were bussed in from the boonies, having passed a test and interview to attend a particular program there. I made it into the program and Glen was in it as well, along with all his little neighborhood buddies.

But this was elective class and everyone was disseminated for a change and so Glen and I became friends. We shared a love for the Korean War sitcom, and it so happened that the series finale was all anyone could talk about. Big, long ending.... aired past Glen's bedtime. I'd never had a bedtime so I watched it along with the general masses. The next day, in Typing class, Glen wanted to know everything. He said he'd taped it, but wouldn't be able to see it until that night and the suspense was killing him. So we spent the class period whispering about the episode behind our typewriters.

I remember clearly that I was telling him about how everyone said good-bye to Hawkeye at the end, up at the chopper pad. And Glen said that he had snuck out of his bedroom and could hear from the banister as his parents watched. He said he heard some of the good-byes, but that then there was a really loooooong silence. I laughed and told him that that was when Hawkeye grabbed Margaret and kissed her. Glen said it couldn't have been that part because it was a really long silence. I told him it was a really long kiss.

A couple of young teens, both giddy at the culmination of an 11-year flirtation between the two characters. The click, click of the keys drowning out our own flirtation.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Franklin Covey Saves the Day

This week's quote was deliberately selected.

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
--- Douglas Adams
I knew I was tempting fate by aspiring to one post per day. Never mind that I've had words coming out of my ears all week and have thought of an endless variety of subjects and rants that I might have shared. As soon as there is a deadline to meet, I clam up. It's all terribly psychological, isn't it? A sort of rebellion. "Tell ME when to write, will you?!" That kind of thing.

Plus I'm psychotic about organizing my time. I've been using day planners since I was in high school and had to juggle school, work, and doctors' appointments [see This Queen's Throne]. So I've always kept a calendar of some kind and referred to it, obsessively. Which means that I should be able to schedule in a Writing Hour of some sort and give myself some discipline about the whole thing. But writing was never about structure for me. I've never seen it as something to sit down and do. Writing, for me just happens. Anywhere. At any given moment. Be ready.

Writing doesn't make a date with me. It doesn't respect the dates I've attempted to make with it. I've been stood up enough times to know better. And now I know better: Always carry pen and paper. ALWAYS carry pen and paper. Be ready. As it turns out, it's my Franklin Covey planner that has become my default recipient. Since I carry it with me everywhere anyway, I've taken to jotting in it when the moment strikes. My Notes pages are filled more with my writing than with lists of things to do. It's all there: pen and paper.

So no, writing is not to be scheduled or fabricated for the purposes of deadlines. Writing will happen. So I am always ready.


Monday, August 3, 2009

Wrapping it up

Before I change this week's image, quote and conundrum, I'll go ahead and address the two that I've not written about.

The conundrum is easy.

Would you be willing to become extremely ugly, physically, if it meant you would live for 1,000 years at any physical age you chose?

I've never understood the interest in immortality. It's not for me. I don't want to live for 1,000 years. The few I've struggled through are a burden as it is. I trust that my time will come when it needs to and whatever was left to do will just have to keep.

As for the quote.

"If you're looking for sympathy you'll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary."-- David Sedaris

I love Sedaris. I've only recently been introduced to his work by a friend of mine. And so far, I've found a familiar voice in him and some similar thoughts and attitudes. This quote struck me as perfect this particular last week because I'm trying to make sure that my life takes on a more positive spin. I want to empower myself and see opportunity instead of obstacles. I want to shed any semblance of whining and assumptions of entitlement and know that my troubles are my own, for me to solve and me to celebrate. No one is more invested in me than me. So I'll not have the silly self-pity. I'm on my own. Suck it up and get out there.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Doodles or Discourse


I have a smidge of envy for those people who doodle. You know the ones. They doodle while they’re on the phone or on their napkin at a restaurant. They doodle in the margins of their class notes when the lecture is dry.

They’re no great artists, that’s not really the endeavor here. It’s more about expending extra energy, I’d say. It comes out in spirals and squiggles. In flowers, cross hatching, vines, stick figures and googly eyes. So, in the end, you get this collage of arbitrary images that mean very little. But they’re kinda pretty.

I was never a doodler. Despite my heavy investment in the education of arts, and my competent endeavors in the fine arts production since I was in high school, Art, was never really a calling. I have a great love for it and can’t possibly bear to be parted from the subject for too long, but not so much as a participant. I like bearing witness more. My form of inexhaustible expression was always in words. I've fulfilled all the clichés about writing on napkins and on the back of a business card. I've done the pulling over while I'm driving and the turning on the laptop at 4 am. Words are my vice. And as much as I do have a certain aesthetic appreciation for how they are formed, be they in terms of format, composition, or even visually (beautiful writing sends me!) They are not really the stuff of decoration.

I’ll admit, now, that I have been known to do some writing in the margins of my lecture notes. Usually it involves commentary on the information being noted. Usually it means there’s something there I'm not buying. I make sarcastic remarks or blatant contradictions. I even go so far as to comment on the lecturer’s level of quack-hood depending on how much my patience has been tested and how soon I've discarded his or her credibility.

Or I can be particularly swept away by the information and make notes to follow up on this or the other, or I put little exclamation points near something that I find fascinating or lovely. But doodles? No, I've never been a doodler.

I've actually tried to doodle. I try to think of something pretty to draw. Or I approach it like my writing and just put something down, in the hopes that it will take on a life of its own and take me somewhere. Usually I just end up with a few wavy lines and some spirals for lack of inspiration. Nothing there.

That’s why this week’s image had me intrigued. What caught my attention was the drawing. Clearly, a doodle gone steroidal. But the instant I saw the writing on the same page, the tree lost all hopes of keeping my attention. I pressed my nose up against the monitor in the vain hope of reading whatever is there. It irks me to no end to not be able to decipher it. I want to know.

For me, words will always win.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

This Queen’s Throne

Most kids have extracurricular activities like after school sports or music lessons. I grew up going to the doctor. I had a chronic bladder infection problem from age 7 to 17. I was going to the doctor an average of once a week. Tests of every kind and specialists in every field. And then one day I just didn’t get another infection. I went on with my life.

I mention this because while other people developed a sense of agility or rhythm due to their investments, I have developed a keen sense of direction and location. I can locate a toilet anywhere faster than you can say, “Where’s the john?” At no time during my waking existence am I unaware of my distance from and relative location to the nearest commode. It is a talent. I'm like a homing pigeon about porcelain.

The need for such flexibility all my life made me get over the phobias that most people have about public restrooms. Early on I figured I couldn’t exactly get snooty about using what ever facilities were within my access. I've since educated myself and am well informed about sanitation issues in this regard. Lots of people have a real problem about hygiene in these settings, but I know that any problems you may develop “down there” are not likely to be blamed on a toilet and the contact, or lack thereof, with the surfaces of the entire room. If you grew up with a mom that told you different, let me be clear: she lied. If you feel a deep seeded need to tell me I'm frighteningly wrong and how you can list pages of icky diseases to be had from even looking at commercial tile, let me save you some trouble. I’ll smile and nod.

All of this is to mention that I was in a public restroom yesterday and was surprised to see my surroundings. I was at a hole in the wall kind of gas station/convenience mart. It was a tiny little establishment with no pretenses whatsoever. But the bathroom really shifted the context. It was clean, we can start there. It was one of those one-toilet bathrooms, where you have to bolt the door and hope to God it actually works so you don’t get walked in on. The inside was decorated in a warm vanilla paint and it had – get this – plaster columns embedded into the corners. Between the twisted scroll columns were sculpture reliefs of women carrying water urns. Very Pompeii but in a green monochrome. Weird. I will even venture to say that it wasn’t cheesy. It was actually quite tastefully done. The scale was appropriate, the choice to go with a monochromatic palette was well-founded, and the application was of decent quality.

This made me think about all the bathrooms I've visited over the years and the things I've seen in there. Then the train of thought led me to decide that I am going to put together a photo essay of sorts about the bathrooms that I come across in a month’s time. I always carry a camera around in my purse anyway, and lately it has gotten zero use at all. I’m uninspired by too much these days. I need to pick up the pace in my aesthetic realm of existence. Maybe this’ll spark some interesting photos and such.

Anyway, I'm officially beginning on the first of August and will end the project on the 31, at which point, I will post all the photos accumulated. Feel free to share your bathroom pics, be they in your homes or in public places.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Collaboration

I'll acknowledge that the entry prior was certainly not doing more than fulfilling a quota, if you acknowledge that your participation by commenting would likely serve to encourage further writing.

Friday, July 24, 2009

CRAP!

Two minutes 'till midnight! I'm just getting it in under the wire!

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Whistle While You... Play

I’ll admit I've been avoiding this one. This week’s Andrum’s Conundrum has got my knickers in a knot. Initially, it did, anyway.

Would you rather be extremely successful professionally and have a tolerable yet unexciting private life, or have an extremely happy private life and only tolerable and uninspiring professional life?

What it comes down to is whether I want my excitement to come from my job or from my personal life. When put that way, it made everything more digestible. It became more clear and less difficult. Sure, we’d like our jobs to be exciting, interesting, fulfilling. We spend a good part of our day there and should at least be nominally rewarded. But an inspiring work life would mean a dull personal life. And that just won’t do.

So I broke it down to the logistics of the situation. A job exists (generally) within established parameters: hours to be worked, production to be accomplished, goals to be reached. At one extreme of this definition are the data entry people. They put in a 9 to 5 day, produce some amount of work, and accomplish some task by doing so. At the other extreme of the job field, you’ve got the Bear Grylls guy who’s hours are left up to the production team, but then he can go weeks without being on a schedule. His tasks vary from episode to episode and hopefully his goal of not dying out there is accomplished without too much hardship [read: boredom].

So, yes, there are exciting jobs out there, but let’s face it, the greater population leans towards the data entry crowd. Opportunity is somewhat limited. What there is becomes more or less defined by what exists already, although more and more, jobs are being invented to service an ever-growing world market.

Now let’s look at our options in leisure. Leisure can be seen in its extremes as well. There are those who come home from a day at the office and fall asleep in front of the TV. No dig. I've been known to do it, myself, from time to time. And there are those who run off to hike the Andes on a weekend and still make it back for the Monday morning meeting. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle, I suspect.

Now for the disclaimers. Usually these questions bring up other questions about what is a given and what is not. Many a raucous debate among friends has been settled with a simple premise: Assume the ideal situation. What I mean is this: don’t take into account whether you have enough money to do all the things you want to do in your scenario. Don’t wonder whether there are limitations that you should have to iron out. Assume the ideal situation. So when we talk about job or leisure, assume that whatever job you are considering in your head that you hold is a great-paying job and leaves you wanting for nothing. And assume that whatever leisure you are salivating about is well-funded and limitless. So, logistics aside, it’s not about the practical approach, it’s about the question of where you want your inspiration to come from.

It’s simple for me. I want to be inspired by my personal life. I want to travel, take classes, try various activities, push myself to see what else there is. If the rule is that my job is neither a detriment nor enabling of this, then I could pretty much have any job there is. Including one that I would find enjoyable, if not inspiring. It isn’t stated that my job would have to be comparatively demoralizing, so there’s nothing to say that I couldn’t very well enjoy it and still have a fantabulous personal life.

The alternative is too limiting. As much as a sensational job may be inspiring, there are still limits to every job. In the end, a job is work. It means that there will be boundaries outside of which you couldn’t perform. Jobs come with boxes. Leisure, not so much.

So that’s my answer. What’s yours?

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

"Her Majesty is One Verb Short of a Sentence"

A handful of years ago, I read Jasper Fforde’s The Eyre Affair. Enchanted, I was. I followed it up with the second book, Lost in a Good Book. I was further taken. Much as I don’t take well to fantasy, this alternate reality was so well designed that it swallowed me right the heck up. Brilliant. The care that J.K. Rowling took to create Hogwarts and its rules and regulations is the same care that Fforde took to build this world where fictional characters exist outside of their novels and fairy tales.

Complete with a Judicial system and laws and central libraries that double as headquarters, the joy of bumping into any unforeseeable character was like a cameo by a favorite actor.

I'm at a loss to describe the true thoroughness with which this setting is constructed. And at a loss to explain the quirky, and eccentric characters and details throughout. Don’t believe me? I can do no better than to invite you to the Jasper Fforde website. But be forewarned: True to its intention, you can get lost in there. Hilarious links take you to unexpected discoveries.

Just brilliant.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Orange Steps



Orange is my favorite color. I decided this one day, the way one decides to have something on a menu. I gravitate towards saturated colors as it is, and it quickly became apparent that Orange and Purple were vying for my attention. It took some considering. But in the end, Orange kept taking the top spot. Purple was just too dark. I decided that Orange was more the direction I've chosen to go in my life. I want this brightness, this sensuality, this warmth. It looks like a plushy color. Like it might spring back from touch or like it might stick to any part it comes into contact with. I have no problem with that. I’d be happy to have Orange stick to me.

One of my earliest memories is of daycare. I must have been 3. I was a precocious child, but shy. I preferred to look at maps and read books. I think I had the teacher worried. Other kids were playing with blocks and fighting over play dough. I didn’t like the pink stain that the home made play dough left on my hands. It made it impossible to hold a book later, for fear of ruining those objects which I adored most. But I was a passive child, and did what I was told.

One day, one hot summer day, the teachers rolled out butcher paper under the canopy of a huge tree in the playground, and set out some paints on shallow lunch trays. I could see it coming: finger painting. I just wanted to finish my book. But the clever teachers got me. They managed to intrigue this jaded little girl. We were not to do finger-painting. It was all about the feet painting this fine day. As was my way, I didn’t voice many of my thoughts. Instead I ruminated internally. “Are they kidding? But we’ll get paint all over everything…Is there somewhere to wash afterwards? Are we expected to make something or just walk on the paper?” All along, Teacher Delia worked off my shoes and socks and put them neatly to the side before I realized she’d done so during my internal dialog. I was now barefoot in the playground and before me was a tray of red, one of blue, and one of green paint.

She nudged me along, giving instructions, though I wasn’t really listening because the instructions were self-explanatory. But I just couldn’t get it through my head that I was expected to walk on paint. I don’t know how long it took to coax me onto the activities. I don’t remember which paint I eventually chose. I haven’t the foggiest clue what, if anything, I painted with my tiny baby feet. I only remember standing in front of those trays, presented with the opportunity to do something unheard of.

Anyone who knows me now, knows that my preferred mode of existence is the bare-footed one. And that Art became part of my life in just as unexpected a way as that day of the painted feet. I can still conjure up the feelings of discomfort and forced rebellion in my little pre-school mind. Today Orange is my feet painting. Orange is what makes me feel daring. Orange, in a corporate world, is my life boat.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The Sunday Switch

I guess I've only made a reference in passing about the weekly changing of the guard. So, if we've picked up any new readers (*snort*) or some of you just haven't noticed, I'll 'splain now.

Every Sunday I change the panorama around here. Nothing over-the-top, just some of the accessories, shall we say. Right now, it's all about the Quote of the Week, which I try to center around writing or reading, and the Andrum's Conundrum which I explained in a post on July 3rd, I believe.

I may also add a picture of the week. I'm not sure. I like my current picture because I've always referred to my writings as soap box rants, so finding this particular image was just meant to be. It's stayin'. But I might just start posting an image of the week. Who knows, it might even serve as inspiration. Come to think of it, I should be writing about each quote, Andrum's Conundrum, and Image during the week that I post them....! That would take care of 3 days' worth of postings for the week. *Gasp* There's an idea!

Sometimes I really need to be walked through such revelations.

P.S. Feel free to submit entries into either category, as I love to collect quotes, as well as the other stuff to share. You'll even get a shout-out out of the deal. I know! Be still, your heart!

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Hem and Haw

As promised, I must fill this space with some form of written exercise. As warned, these are not all gonna be winners.

Went to see friends today. BBQ for an early birthday. As usual, friends are a good idea. Much laughing, much sharing, lots and lots of eating of junk food.

Friday, July 17, 2009

The Promise of a New Effort

I know I'm probably shooting myself in the foot here, but what the hell.

*Ahem*

I'm going to try to make the effort to, perhaps, maybe, if it's possible, commit to writing something, anything in here on a daily basis. Now, I'm not saying this is going to be in any way the next great novel or reflections from my depths. I'm just saying. Something will be posted on a daily basis and I will attempt to make it worth the glance.

Ok, I've said my peace. Let the challenge commence.

21st Century Luddite

I put a feed link on the margin. I have no idea how it works, but there it is for those of you who do.

Feel free to explain this little enigma.

The Most Trusted Man in America

R.I.P. Walter Cronkite.

An exemplary human being.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Fantasy vs. Reality

I've done no editing on this. I just up-chucked it as you see it here.

Friend of mine asked what up about me and the Fantasy genre. So I decided to really slow it down (my thinking) give it a good stir, and consider. No flippant remarks, no matter how tempting.

Why do we like the genres we like? And why do we not like the ones we do?

I think… I think I've always been a realist. I think that there are aspects about my life that I figured out early in life that I would not ever be able to control. So I think that I decided to identify those things which I could in the interest of providing as much stability, safety, I dunno…. I think I realized early on that the way to control as much as I could about my life was to go about it rationally. Cause and effect, A+B=C, the Scientific Method… these are constants. Follow them and you can’t go wrong. No surprises.

I don’t like surprises. I don’t like twist endings, I don’t like things that I could not have foreseen. So I don’t like Fantasy. Too many variables. If a writer can conjure up a dragon, there’s no line that’s going to be respected. Seven-eared geese-monkeys are next, and clearly, no good can come of that.

I don’t want to be lied to. I don’t want my information sugar coated. I can take it. Life is gritty enough on its own. Give it to me straight. Even as a six-year-old, “happily ever after” smacked of cop-out for me. Like the writer just got tired of thinking and decided that this was a good place to end the story. Everything got wrapped up very quickly and in a pretty pink box with a bow. I always wanted to know what happened next. Did Snow White have a hard time training Prince Charming to put down the toilet seat? Did Rapunzel decide that a pixie cut was far more practical and less painful on her neck?

I tried reading the Hobbit when I was nine and all I could wonder was what was so important about some rock? Actually, my memory is fuzzy, so I'm not sure what it was they were after. But whatever it was, it couldn’t have merited half the crap they put themselves through.

I tried reading Bradbury (Something Wicked This Way Comes) and was completely disinterested in what should have been some terribly eccentric characters.

I tried reading the Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe in 5th grade and couldn’t tell you a thing about it to save my life. Except that apparently there was a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe.

I was never a fanciful child. I was a daydreamer, yes, but my fantasies were more along the lines of real-life adventures. I liked the concept of the Swiss Family Robinson. I liked stories about nature, survival, and adventure. I liked history, documentaries, learning about real people and their trials and tribulations. Real people that had gone through real journeys, which meant that I could do the same. A promise of possibility. These fantasies were reachable. This was something within my grasp. All that other stuff just seemed like a pile of lies. And I always felt like someone was trying to pull one over on me. Let’s see how gullible she is….Let’s see if she buys it. No thank you. You can take your little gremlins and your flying monkeys with you on your way out, thank you very much, I’ll stay here with my tales of journeys around the world.

I think that there were aspects about my life that didn’t let me harbor any ideas about magical solutions. My solutions were always hard won. I earned them. I would not have them dismissed or undermined by some silliness. I liked my books tragic, real, challenging, hopeful, promising, and instructive. I like finding tools for myself in them. Not metaphoric tools. I had no time for symbolic puzzles. I wanted real life tools. Strategies I could put into place immediately.

I think Fantasy was like a religion to me. A religion I wasn’t buying. I resisted it, actively, versus tolerating it and dismissing it. I openly taunted the premise of so many books that I came across. They felt like silly things, meant to distract me from what was real. And I could never really afford to lay down my guard that way. I lived in a very real world and had to stay there.

I think that today, as an adult, I have a combined reaction to them. On the one hand, they continue to be these senseless adventures, but now, from my limited experience, they are also terribly unfit to compete in the big leagues that I've been accustomed to. I grew up with the classics from around the world. Epics, stories of entire generations and tales of strife and persistence. Told in poetic cadence. These writers of the classics knew how to weave the music of words. They are not just a venue, they are to be enjoyed, themselves. Used capably, they were their own reward. I don’t find this distinction in Fantasy writing. Words are cold, meant only to narrate, not so much to be heard. I can’t bond with such a use. I need my words to reach me, to envelope me, to make me feel. I need good writing.

For me, reading Fantasy is like reading a Harlequin novel or watching reality TV. I have to wonder why these characters should exist. They serve no purpose.

That’s just me, though.

Friday, July 3, 2009

The Andrum's Conundrum

Anyone here familiar with The Shins? They rock.

My favorite song of theirs is Australia, probably because it's sort of manic. And the lyrics sort of speak to me. Ok, not sort of. They should be tatooed into my left ventricle.

In any case, there's a line in the song that says something about the android's conundrum. I like the Shins' lyrics because they are quasi-enigmatic, which appeals to my sense of words as art. So when I came across this line, at first I couldn't make out the lyrics and thought that they were saying "andrum's conundrum" and I thought it was some obscure reference. Ever the linguaphile, I looked it up and came across this site: What is Andrum? They do a thorough job of explaining it, so I'll leave it to them. Essentially: "room to breathe".

It wasn't until later that I discovered my mistake, and realized that they're saying "android," not "andrum," but the former idea had me charmed. I liked the conflicting thought of having a place of peace and throwing in a conundrum. Not something to pull one's hair out about, just something that would interrupt the tranquility and inspire a pause to reflect. If you can work it out, you can go back to your peace.

Well, lo and behold, I have here a little nook that I consider my safe place, aptly named Respite and Nepenthe, so it all fits together very cool-like. Therein, I'm establishing a new entry on my margin called exactly that: The Andrum's Conundrum. In it I will post a weekly conundrum and hope that the questions will inspire some thought, conversation amongst friends, and maybe even a minor tantrum. The questions will be selected from The Book of Questions - Gregory Stock, PhD, a favorite over the years which has inspired many a rousing evening of debate amongst my friends.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Sunday, June 21, 2009

On the basic tools of the trade...

Let's discuss my addiction to journals.

You know when you enter a bookstore there's always that section of stationery and writing implements? Writing pads, journals, pocket books, etc. in every color of the rainbow and in a mass of textures. Now, we've already established that the color/texture cocktail is a dangerous one for me, so you can imagine the heart pounding that goes on as I approach.

There is actual salivating. Automatically, my hand goes out. I have to touch them. Fuzzy velvet one. Smooth leather one. Bristly embroidered one. Alas, upon opening them, more often than not, the attraction ends. There's something about the paper. The paper needs to be just right. It needs to feel smooth to the touch, inviting the drag of the pen. Blue ink, medium ballpoint, of course. For some reason, many of these journals are made with a rough paper. I just don't get it. Don't they know their market? Am I the only one that cringes at the thought of dragging a pen over a rough surface?

Still, ogling can be enjoyed. I know that there are people who scour the gossip magazines and drool over the latest hunk or diva. Here's so-and-so at the opening to that one movie... here's whatzerface at the hottest club in town. People have their crushes and they get their fix rifling through the pages of some glossy magazine before putting it back on the rack and sighing. This is how I see my time at the journal section. Not to mention stationery stores or any trinket store that has journals or writing sets or that general kind of thing. I get to look at all the pretty colors and hold them as I walk up and down the aisle. I run my fingers over the covers and open to pages and discover the innards.

I carry as many as I can. For that brief moment, they are mine. We are becoming one. They will infuse me with all their colors and textures and then I can walk away refueled.

I always hate walking away. Why can't I have this one? It's so pretty. Look how lovely the pages are. Imagine what that would feel like under my pen.

The reason I can't have any is because I've already treated myself to more than I'm actually putting to use. Over the years, I've found some real treasures and simply HAD to have them. So now, I insist that I will go through all of them and use them before I buy any more.

There's the predictable one with DaVinci's Vitruvian Man on the cover. I mean really, isn't that just a stock requirement in the artist's toolbox? In my defense, however, it's the smallest one I own, and it fits right in my purse with no problem, making it quite handy. Then there's the huge one the size of a photo album that a friend gave me because I was visiting him in another town and had made the mistake of not packing my own journal. He hoisted this monster on me due to a moment of panic on my part, but as soon as I returned home, it just became this elephant of a book. It will likely find its way to the Goodwill pile. The red one is due to another moment of urgency. I shan't go into specifics but the fact is I looked for the least expensive thing on the shelf, knowing fully well that I had journals at home which hosted a tidal wave of guilty soul-poking, but I was in a bind, dammit, and needed to write. The orange one is nothing to write home about, as it is just your basic paperback, but it was purchased in Florence and was the receptacle for many a thought and narration as I traveled up and down Italy alone, the way I like it.

My favorite one, right now, is a yellow one. It's not much to look at, quite low-key. Even has the spiral binding versus the stringed kind. But when I touched this little gem, I knew I was taking it home with me. The pages are a sort of cross between paper and plastic. It's impossible to describe because I've never come across anything like it before. There's actually a plushy quality to the paper so that combined with the smoothness, it sort of cradles the pen and the drag just slips right along. It makes medium point come out like dark point. I'm using it sparingly, because I'm going to miss it when it's gone.

They are loved, these little items of joy. They are admired for their aesthetic qualities as well as for their textural ones. They are appreciated for the task that they allow me to perform in a bind. I can't imagine ever finding myself without a number of them in my possession. They are comforting and elating and encouraging and frustrating, but they are necessary.

If they weren't, they wouldn't fit in my hands so naturally, now, would they?

Stop fucking around and just write...



Saturday, June 13, 2009

Singing with the caged bird

I've added some links to some of the music that is, or has been interesting or beloved to me.

Certainly, this does not represent the whole of it, but I figure it's a good start for here and now. I'm sure I'll be adding to it, changing it around, and generally playing with the whole thing and including some blurb about why I've included it at all.

As for the ones that I've started with, let's break it down, shall we?

Make your Own Music Video.
A really cool site. This singer is from Spain and aside from creating a standard video for her latest hit, she also had a site made so that fans can "make their own" albeit under some established context. As it loads, there is a general explanation.

Translated:

Soy tu Aire is a song full of many and few, of orchestras and strings of voice. Of truths and lies, half told. And since you have ups and downs, we wanted to give you something so that you could move with the song.

A brush.
Because I am your air. Here we paint on the air.

Move where you want. Where the song takes you.
You will end up making your own work, one which you will have the option of replaying at the end.

When it's done loading, you get the Play prompt and upon clicking on it, the song begins and you use your mouse or mouse pad to control the drag of the brush. At the end, you can replay it by clicking on "Reproducir cancion" at the top left of the screen.

Soy tu Aire
This is the actual video with the singer from Spain. It's a lovely song, but had it not been for the video, I might never have come across it.

Le Drapeau
I'll be honest and say that I've not really listened to the song as much as I usually do. That said, it's not so bad that it's driven me away, so by default, I like it. What drew me to this was the animation. The images are reminiscent of a high quality graphic novel and I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge that part of its charm is that it reminds me of one of my closests friends, an avid graphics novel fan.

La Scala
This is another international (Italian) song. She's not for everyone, as she has a sort of screechy quality to her voice. But I liked it. There's nothing in the least bit phenomenal about the video, which breaks my tendency to highlight those videos that have some kind of artistic quality. In case you haven't noticed, I gravitate to the aesthetically original. I like artists who push the envelope and demonstrate a new voice.

Cama y Mesa
That said, the next two songs are unapoligetically personal. These remind me of when I was a little girl. The singer is Brazilian and sings in both Portuguese and Spanish. The Spanish songs were a hit in Mexico in the 70s in that balladier genre much like Barry Manilow and Billy Joel.

Un Millon de Amigos
This song was always over the top sappy, which I JUST DON'T DO... except with this song. It's about wanting many friends to be able to sing and enjoy life, etc. It really wins the syrupy prize when you add the fact that my mom used to have her 1st grade class learn it for the yearly assemblies. Damned thing actually made me teary to hear a crowd of 6 year olds sing:

Yo solo quiero cantar me canto
Pero no quiero cantar solito
Yo quiero un coro de pajaritos

Translated:
I just want to sing my song
But I don't want to sing alone
I want a chorus of little birds.

I know... Wah!

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

This was to be expected.

A little writer's block goes a long way in shaking my already fragile ego. Seems I can conjure up a million things to write about on any given day, but put a computer in front of me and I dry up. Not sure what that's about.

So I have to pull out the heavy artillery. I'm going to have to tap into the things that inspire me and get my gears turning:
  • Music - this may backfire, as I can get so worked up by it that I can't sleep. I have to be careful of what I'm listening to and at what time of the day. Green Day at 1am is not a good idea.

  • Reading - you would think this would work, but it only rarely does. If I'm reading a novel, then it's a lost cause. All I'm interested in is finding out what happens next. But if I'm reading essays by the likes of Sedaris, Eggers, or Fulghum, then the wheels start spinning. Especially if there is humor involved.

  • Colors - Wierd, eh? But yes, colors really do it for me. This is actually a combination of colors and textures. Items like Indian silks with embroidery and soft shag throw pillows are real elixirs. The colors I particularly respond to are the saturated kind like forrest greens and olives and mandarin and royal blues and regal purples. The pastels do absolutely nothing for me. Too diluted.

So I'm thinking I have to decorate around here a little bit...

Friday, May 22, 2009

Hot potato

Friends are good.

It's a rough time, this one. Regardless of who you are and what your life may look like, there's no denying that we've hit a rough spot. The country is in shambles and even the most apathetic citizen is unable to ignore the impact this recession is having on the lot of us. It would take someone born with a silver spoon not to feel the weight of it all, not to be at least a little bit hit by it.

It sits there like the canvas on which to live our lives. Each of us already with our own challenges. Our illnesses, our education, our work environment, our family life are all tinged with the same lining. Every obstacle is just that little bit more magnified.

The luxury of a cup of designer java is all the more appreciated under such circumstances. Phone trees are kicked into gear. And you get the call. Friends in need. A moment to regroup, to find comfort, support, a forum to vent. In a matter of minutes, like worker bees, we find a common meeting place, set a time, and spread the word. And then we look forward for that moment. We sing in the car. We roll down the window and find a new sweetness in the way the sun hits our arm. We are going to be with friends.

Whoever arrives first has the task of setting up shop. Find a table stake out the chairs, field calls from anyone who's gotten lost. And slowly, the haggard, worn, and anxious faces appear. There's no need for small talk. We jump right into our truths. Our pains, our hurts, our frustrations. We take turns spilling it all, and we take turns being the voices of reason, of advice, but mostly of support. If we have no wisdom, we say so. But we have heart and we give that freely. Hot potato... your turn. Hot potato... my turn.

The sun whispers in orange tones and we begin to re-dress in our combat gear. We have been re-energized. We have been vindicated. We are omnipotent. We can do this. Our friends said so.

So we go and rejoin our individual lives again. Better equiped. Wounds bandaged. We can do this. Our friends said so.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Score!

The local library is a favorite haunting ground for me. Suffice it to say it is laden with books. Books. My very own vice.

On top of it all, it is embraced like a nest in the middle of a great big park with trails and ponds and trees and fountains. There are ducks. There are squirrels. There are even red-eared slider turtles in the big fountain. It is a happy place.

I often set up shop in the lower level of the library. From there I can see the large fountain and watch the ducks swim around, dodging the turtles as they come up for air. A couple of weeks ago, I even saw a momma duck lead her baby duckies out on a stroll.

This library has an interesting corner. Over there by the bathrooms, where there is not much foot traffic, behind the staircase, is a bookshelf. On that bookshelf are books. These books have been stamped "Free." On occassion I peruse and find some interesting book or other that I may never have otherwise come across. I take some home with me.

Today, though... Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses. Right there in hardback. Just sitting there waiting for me. I've been wanting to read this for years.

Written a few weeks ago

I love to watch people do what the do best. There's a magic to the actual event as opposed to the product.

I'm sitting in the atrium of a shopping center, watching a group of musicians set up for a performance. I like watching the process. I like the familiarity with which they handle the tools of their trade. Objects that are unidentifiable to me bear the patina of use and age.

When I was studying architecture, I learned to use so many odd tools that were designed to aid in traditional drafting. Something that looked like a large razor blade was actually an eraser shield, and so on. Something had made this odd little piece of equipment necessary. Someone designed this singular contraption for a very specific use. I almost envy these little jewels. It's like their one limited use is validated by that same noble cause. They serve no other purpose, are not required to, and still are appreciated for the success with which they perform it.

We should all be so content to excel at one definitive thing. Whether it be cooking, auto mechanics, climbing, or tying our shoes, we should be able to carry one burden, one task, one talent to a level of perfection and be excused from all other trivialities. Just imagine the possibilities.

Houston, Please advise...

I'm gonna just throw this out there and hope the cyber faries bring me a good samaritan.

What's the difference between:
Flagging this blog
Following this blog
Subscribing to this blog
?

Monday, May 18, 2009

Genesis 2.0

Don't scroll down. DON'T! Ugh, you're scrolling down.

What we're going to do is make like this is where you start reading. Mm-hm. Nothing to look at down there, so y'all come on back up here, now. As it turns out, anything before this post was a sort of a dress rehersal. Yeah, that's what we'll call it. A dry run for the uninitiated.

I've gotten my second wind and having regrouped, I shall begin again. There has been much washing of the hands. I have studied my lines with fervor. I even had oatmeal for breakfast. And I shaved my legs.

I am ready.

Now what?

Monday, March 9, 2009

Days 20 - 28

So the last week was a moot point. I was terribly disillusioned, truth be told, about the sad number of responses. I know people are out there living their lives, and with better things to waste their time with. I just felt like it was such a brief moment that I was asking for.

Ah well, no use to dwell.

I'm not sure what shape this blog will take on now. It served its purpose and now i've become endeared with it and though there is no evidence whatsoever that I'm reaching anyone at all, hope springs eternal and I sit here like some obsessing, masochistic martyr, chained to the computer.

More when I've regrouped.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Day 19

Another medium response.

I see that one friend is still sending forwards, bless her heart. Renewed hope in my little spirit?

Perhaps...

Day 18

One medium response.

This was a pleasant surprise.

Day 11 - 17

There are othere things going on in my life right now that are squashing my spirit. I thought that this little project would give me something to smile about every day. It's not working out that way, though. So, it becomes a viscious cycle. The low turnout rate bums me out. I was originally going to do a weekly re-send and try various modes of communication to get the word out, but I'm seeing that much to my own dissappointment in myself, I'm running out of steam. Just this last week left and I'm done.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Day 4

Things are sort of looking up. Lovely cousin has lit a fire under some of his friends' butts and I'm getting some responses from that corner of the world:

Two short answers.

One long answer.

One non-answer. Kind man sent me references that I will certainly look into, but did not include his thoughts. Naturally, I wrote back, insisting on a response. I suspect it won't be long before complete strangers start making voodoo dolls with my name on it.

Meanwhile, I've set up an auto-response that thanks all responders and invites them to come here, to this blog to see how the whole project is coming along. So far this is less than titilating, methinks.

Total mailbox activity: 4 responses.

Day 3

Oh dashed hopes, oh crushing disillusionment!

Nothing in the mailbox today.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Day 2

Off to a promising start... in relative terms.

I got one returned email due to a full mailbox. Since it was one of the three college professors, I'm interested in re-sending it as soon as possible in the interest of using her as one of my main disseminators.

I got one returned mail auto response from someone who is currently out of the country. Again, because I'm hoping that she will be a mass disseminator (she's involved in a widely used website) I'll be re-sending to this address.

I got one returned mail claiming user unknown. Also an important option, due to yet another large venue for dissemination, I'm disappointed, but not altogether thrown. I have faith that this email will get to her because other people in my first batch are also in her circle, and she might get it as a forward.

In terms of actual responses, I have received two actual, real-life, responses and am giddy.

Total activity in the mail box: 5 responses.

Day 1

I'm going to try a little experiment via e-mail. I want to see how much this e-mail takes on a life of its own by getting disseminated as far and wide as is humanly possible in a one month period.

The question I'm throwing out there:

What do you think Art is?

For Art Historians, this question is as fundamental as "What is love?" is to poets, and "What is the meaning of life?" is to philosophers. I'm asking in the interest of gathering word from "the masses." This question has been answered and re-answered by so many. It has been debated by critics and historians alike and I can't help but notice that a favorite go-to is the argument that Art is defined by the people. But who are the people? And what are they saying? Don't just throw "us" a bone, investigate. Without a publication to speak for us, or a podium at our disposal, the idea that Art is defined by the people is just a theory. An abstract pacifier to feign a bridge that has yet to be built between academics and the general population. But if Art is for the people and defined by the people, then I want to lend them (you/us?) my ear.

Here it is. Here's your soap box. Write down your thoughts, share your views. Be as brief or long-winded as you see fit. I just want to know. This endeavor is a humbly personal one, having struggled with the question, myself, for so long. I'm not interested in any kind of full disclosure. An email name and general location (ie: kittypaws in Eureka, OR) would be more than enough. I just want to get a sense of the diversity of locations this e-mail is able to reach.

I sent out the e-mail late February 1. (To be sure, it was 1am, so technically it was Feb. 2).

*I've included a number of friends and family.
*I've included three college professors from where I did my undergraduate work, in the hopes that (and with the instructions to) they will announce the little project to their students, thereby opening up a whole 'nother population in one fell swoop.
*I've included two recipients from two foreign countries in order to see if the answers come from farther and wider.
*I've included two major museum addresses, also hoping to tap into that population.
*I've included one radio personality, in the hopes I can abuse the relationship for my benefit.