Of Twitter and the ordinary

Twitter sparks things. Tonight it sparked this thought: that most people don’t feel the story of their lives is worth telling, that the story of what is ordinary is not anything in which anyone could have any interest. It occurred to me that I don’t believe in the existence of the ordinary.

I used to, and I used to firmly place myself in that category. I still, to this day, disavow compliments with the phrase “I’m only me,” implying that I am nothing extraordinary. I realised tonight, however, that I’ve discarded the idea of “ordinary” as fallacious. Maybe this marks me as an idealist, who knows? Maybe it means I’m finally moulding myself into the shape I want to be. If you want to be a storyteller, after all, it’s fairly essential that you learn to recognise stories.

I never considered my life to be anything extraordinary. The more I think on it, however, the more I realise that it’s had extraordinary moments, and that nobody’s life is comprised of more than that. Some people have more of those moments than others, to be sure. Some people go out and create those moments for themselves, seize upon events around them and turn them into something mad and amazing; some people have those moments happen to them without their conscious interference, victims of caprice and happenstance. But all of us have them, to some degree or another, and it’s those moments that are worth telling. It’s those moments that make a life’s story interesting enough to be told.

My life could be a novel. Parts of it would have to be excised, of course; parts emphasised or embellished, but the story so far isn’t as boring as I used to believe.

Food for thought.

 

In which I brag.

I just got back from my kid’s school awards ceremony, and I couldn’t be more proud. He received an award in every category they gave out today. Perfect attendance, two scholastic achievement awards and (drumroll, pls) all A’s honour roll.

Mah boy! -snif- Am so proud of him.

Also, have had further proof that he really is mine: I received on his report card this semester the best kind of note I could ever have from his teacher. To paraphrase: “I’m so glad Jacob loves to read so much and I wish more of my students had half as much interest in books as he does, but he really needs to put his book down and pay better attention in class.”

Buahahaha. My mother got notes like that back every time we got a report card, for each of us but one. MAH BOY!

 

DC and the beginning of things.

A little troupe of us- myself, J. and my other J.- travelled to Washington yesterday, on the promise of festivities and fun, although we opted to skip the inauguration itself, as that was a bit too much of a zoo for any of us to handle (some of us do crowds better than others, y’see).

We went to the Rock The Vote concert at the 9:30 Club, which is a impressively well-laid-out venue, and which was a memorable experience. Saw The Dresden Dolls perform, a first-time thing for all three of us, and it was a powerful show. Their set was short (all the performers were limited to something like half an hour), but well-chosen, and their encore cover of War Pigs (dedicated to the outgoing Bush administration) brought a roar of laughter and enthusiastic agreement from the crowd.

We had balcony seats. We had a perfect view. We got some fantastic pictures, which will be uploaded and posted here sometime tomorrow. We prowled around after their set, although not in time to catch AFP and Brian Viglione at the merchandise booth, which sucked, as I wanted to meet Brian v. badly.

I wanted to meet Amanda, too.

And I did. She’s just as awesome in person as she seems from musicblogpicturesvideos. It’s a good thing I have absolutely no shame, or we probably wouldn’t have had this chance, but the three of us had given up on finding the Dolls in the crowded club and had gone outside. We were lurking on the corner, trying to sort out what we wanted to do- Thing One wanted to find Thing Two some food and sobering influence, Thing Two wanted to find a barrel-fire and the makings for s’mores- when a pair of people exited the club and came around the side of the building where we stood. I wasn’t sure if it was AFP or not- this is the effect of the common hoodie, you see- so I called her name. I honestly wasn’t figuring on it being her.

Except it was, and I am now officially the best girlfriend ever, because AFP, who was clearly trying to duck out unnoticed and probably go somewhere warm with a bed, was superbly gracious enough to stand and chat with us for a couple of minutes while she waited on her ride, who went on ahead to get the car. That made the entire evening worth it. It had been a good enough time anyway, and we would have come home happy we’d gone, but those few minutes gave it the extra impetus to bump the excursion from ‘good day away from it all’ to ‘right up there in the top ten vacations’, brief as it was. Thing One couldn’t talk in a register low enough for the human ears for roughly forty-five minutes after we went our separate ways from AFP.

She really is incredibly gracious. For all that we get told ‘famous people are still people’, I don’t know a lot of them who’d take five minutes to chat in the frigid cold, at one in the morning, with a group of people they’d never before met in their life, as though they’re old friends. Especially given I suspect we were all just ticking off the fangirl/boy stereotypes as we went along.

But it was a good conversation. We talked about tour dates and food and how record labels are Satanspawned cesspits (my phrasing, if it needs saying, and not hers), and how Chapel Hill is a great place to come play music. Hint, hint, hint. Not as close as, say, Greensboro (HINT HINT HINT!) but close enough to make me smile sweetly at my boss and demand the evening off or else.

No, not really. Extortion’s not my thing. But I’m not above bribery. Just sayin’.

And that was awesome. But it wasn’t what really made the trip such a blissfully good one.

What really made the trip worth going was… atmosphere. Everywhere we went in DC, on the metro, in the streets, in restaurants and the venue, everyone was happy. Bouyantly, exuberantly happy. The hope and relief were a nearly-tangible thing, and it was everywhere. I’ve been to DC before, and people just don’t talk to each other; strangers don’t really strike up conversations for no good reason other than there’s someone sitting next to them on the Metro, but last night, just about everyone we saw was smiling, and just about everyone I spoke to spoke back. People were friendly. People were laughing. People looked at each other and saw, instead of obstacles to the Metro door or an object taking up a valuable seat or a faceless entity to be ignored in case of rapist/murderer/used car salesman- other people. Human beings, worth really looking at and speaking with, worth sharing a few precious minutes of their lives with, simply because they were together in the same place by happenstance, and because yesterday was a Damn Good Day.

Fuck; that ought to be a song. AFP, you on that? Oh, wait.

 

Epiphany, of a sort.

Tomorrow- today, technically, but I haven’t been to bed yet, so it doesn’t count- is going to suck. I know it. I feel it in my marrow and in my blood. I have to share space with the ex and his gf, and there is so much pent-up hostility there I’m surprised I haven’t lit buildings on fire when I think of it.

But I’ve realised something. Just now, in fact; just a minute and a half ago, or less: it’s going to suck, but that doesn’t matter. I’m better.

I have to put up with the ex and the sour piece of uptight upholstery he’s saddled himself with, but that doesn’t have to bother me as much as I’ve let it. He’s lost everything over the past few years, and I’ve only gained.

He’s lost three houses, his jetskis, and a car because he couldn’t pay for them. He lost his swanky job, the one he was going to get rich in (he was selling mortgages, btw. For Ameriquest, briefly. This should tell you everything you need to know about the man). He’s living in a small apartment in a relatively cheap portion of town, selling cars and barely, as far as I can guess, making his bills. From comments my kid has made, I suspect he’s turning into a functioning alcoholic. I suspect, after having the pattern of his actions pointed out to me, that he’s miserable right now, that he’s using the fact that the divorce isn’t final yet to avoid having to marry the woman he shacked up with.

And I’ve only gained.

I’ve gained self-respect.

I’ve gained confidence.

I’ve gained a good job that, if all goes well, I should be able to hang onto through the current economic hosing, and although things are tight, I’m doing better than a lot of people.

I’ve gained a girlfriend, someone who loves me warts and all, unreservedly, without insisting I change things to suit an image, rather than the twisty-turny, slightly warped, constantly-shifting reality of me.

I’ve gained the best dog in the whole wide world, a smart, sweet, pretty, loyal, funny boy who learns tricks and loves me and keeps me safe while I sleep.

I think I’m finally starting to come around to the proper perspective, the proper way of looking at how I relate to the ex.

I’m happy. I’m finally happy. And he’s a sad, struggling, self-absorbed, close-minded, selfish, small man. He wants success and he sabotages himself. And he’s getting older without getting further along. And I feel sorry for him.

I’ll probably hate him again tomorrow, when I see him with his gf, with matching smug expressions, but tonight I feel sorry for him. I knew him before he turned into this person that I hate, and I know he could have been so much better.

And there, as the adage goes, but for the grace of God, go I. I can only be grateful I got out in time, and that I learn, and grow, and that I can be happy.

 

Buahaha.

I love my mother, and this is why: because I can have with her a conversation, in all seriousness, regarding who would win if Chuck Norris got into an asskicking contest with Jack Bauer.

(She’s totally cheering for Jack.)

My mom is awesome. That is all.

 

Long shot, I know-

-mostly because I have just about nil for readers yet, but just in case:

This is Dogwood.

Dogwood needs a new home.  His family, because of recently-discovered medical issues, can’t care for him any longer, and are trying very hard to find someone else for him to love and be loved by so they don’t have to turn him over to the Humane Society.  Can you take him in?  Do you know someone who can?

Re-post, if you can.  I dunno why but this one got me.

It’s probably because he’s grey.  I have a soft spot for all-grey kitties.

 

Protected: Salmagundi again

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

 

Isn’t this special.

This is preposterous.

The practice of medicine ought to be- and supposedly is- based on the ideal of universal compassion, regardless of personal feeling. A truly ethical doctor will treat any patient, whether or not he or she happens to agree with that person’s beliefs, sexual orientation, personal lifestyle etc. Any doctor who would even consider refusing someone treatment, for whatever reason, shouldn’t be in the damned medical field in the first place. They’re not in it for the right reasons. That refusal alone ought to be grounds for malpractice.

Worse, the wording of this legislation covers not just doctors but any of their staff. If the receptionist decides he or she doesn’t like your piercings or tattoos, or suspects you’re gay, or thinks maybe you vote for a party she doesn’t like, this legislation gives him or her a free pass to simply not book you an appointment. It’ll never even get to the point where you’ve got to convince the doctor you’re not evil incarnate. He or she simply should not have that right.

Need a prescription filled? Pray your pharmacist doesn’t have any personal objections to you. This legislation covers his or her ass if he/she decides to refuse you your meds.

The federal penalty for a medical group (rightly) chastising any practitioner who does this reveals the corroded basis for the current medical field: the government will withhold funding. As in everything else: follow the money. That the federal government expects this to be effective legislation reveals the truth about the sort of medical practitioners who’d find refuge in it. They’re in it for the money and nothing else.

The scope of this legislation is ambitious and infuriating. Anyone from surgeons and physicians all the way down to the janitor suddenly have their bigotry and prejudices not only protected but tacitly condoned by federal law, enacted by a pseudo-conservative God-botherer of a president and his ethics-challenged administration.

How much you want to bet the first time a gay doctor refuses care to someone like Fred Phelps, though, the hue and cry is deafening?

 

Ah, technology.

So this ping.fm thing seems intriguingly useful.

 

Warning: shameless fangirling ahead.

Tad Williams is a man of a brilliance I can’t touch. I can write passingly well, I confess that much, but he creates, and does it on a level that is, I think, rare. Lots of people write, many of those tell excellent stories. Tad brings his people and his worlds to breathing life. I don’t know how he does it. There’s magic to it, in an older and more terrible sense of the word than legerdemain and Disney. Alchemy- he turns the lead of letter, syllable and phrase into a golden reality, one accessible only by turning pages and hoping he gives you more once you’ve done so.

It’s that quality that has me excited and more than a little anxious about one of his upcoming projects. He is collaborating with Paul Storey on a novel, written by Tad (er, obviously), illustrated with paintings by Paul, based on Wagner’s Ring cycle. Tad and Paul have me a bit frightened over it. It holds much promise, and more than a little threat, because I know already what Tad can do. Coupling his talent with what Paul is offering… well.

The paintings make me uncomfortable. Paul is a fantastic artist, with the ability to evoke more than any typical “ooh isn’t that a lovely picture” feelings with his work. Tad has been posting on his website sneak peeks of the Ring-based paintings, and I’ve been keeping tabs on them, and trying to articulate what it is they do to me. I’m not entirely sure I’ve managed to do so, but then again, I suspect it may never get clearer than this.

They’re disturbing. I mean that they disturb the equilibrium and give me pause with a little shiver of discomfort. I can’t say it’s a bad thing, but it is a more than a bit off-putting. Think of dropping a stone in a pond: everything moves and shifts and looks different for a minute. The sky’s reflection is broken and scattered, and for a moment you can sort of see what’s lurking under the surface, whether you want to or not. The paintings do this to me. They are very dreamlike in their composition: forms and figures are distorted, stretched-seeming, with muted, muddled colours that here and there are marked with splashes of something more vivid and arresting. His subjects’ expressions are withdrawn, resigned, caught in the story, I suspect, and aware of it. There are subtle references everywhere to things I think I ought to recognise but can’t quite grasp: the linked limbs, for example, especially in Rhine Maidens (there is a symmetry to their linked arms that suggests something to my hindbrain that I cannot catch hold of); the wheel formed by the stretched bodies in The Voyage of Siegfried. I can touch the edges of these things, but I can’t quite grasp them, not awake. The paintings touch something that stays asleep and dreaming once I wake up, and that part of me, I think, recognises the undercurrents and swims in them, whereas the rest of me is floundering on the surface. Is there a significance to the single edged cuff in The Bride? I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to find out– but then again, I desperately want to know.

These paintings are haunting me.

Just like Tad’s characters.

The two of them… they’ve got me worried. And very, very thrilled.