Apparently Isabel Allende wrote about this woman's jewelry. They say it makes women feel powerful.
I believe it.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Magical realism as jewelry
Look what I found:
Apparently Isabel Allende wrote about this woman's jewelry. They say it makes women feel powerful.
I believe it.
Apparently Isabel Allende wrote about this woman's jewelry. They say it makes women feel powerful.
I believe it.
Subconscious
I dreamt the other night that I was being hunted.
I don't know that I had done anything wrong, but I was being hunted nonetheless. Me. I mean, I was myself in my dream, which often isn't the case. There was a shady town covered in wood chips, and there was a boy with me. I don't remember seeing his face, but he held my hand as we ran over a network of rafters in big log cabins. When the rafters ran out, we darted into a library and sat around the librarian's desk as if it were the counter at the local cafe. The lights were off in most of the library, except for one bulb over her desk, but you could feel the walls and walls of books. It felt safe.
Then, there is a pause.
We escape the wooden town and are running through the streets of another town, or the same town 100 years later. The streets are paved and there are sidewalks and two story clapboard houses painted white with low black iron fences and black iron railing up the concrete front steps. You couldn't see trees, but there were the shadows of trees on the fronts of the houses.
He took me into an older woman's house. It was more like a room in a house, really. A bed and a few small pieces of furniture, covered with books and papers. Behind one small dresser is a sliding door that looks like the entrance to a closet, but it's really a shower with a bathtub. She tucks me into the bathtub, and I spend most of the dream crouched down with my cheek resting on the porcelain edge.
I can hear voices of the sheriff's department entering the old woman's room. She sits quietly on the bed. They check all around, opening drawers, but don't notice the closet. Or, they see it, but can't imagine it being used behind the dresser. They leave.
And I wake up.
But I am curious that I get to be the protected in this dream. I still have to run, like always, but I am the one being saved, and there is someone to help me. This is new. I have been waiting for these dreams.
I don't know that I had done anything wrong, but I was being hunted nonetheless. Me. I mean, I was myself in my dream, which often isn't the case. There was a shady town covered in wood chips, and there was a boy with me. I don't remember seeing his face, but he held my hand as we ran over a network of rafters in big log cabins. When the rafters ran out, we darted into a library and sat around the librarian's desk as if it were the counter at the local cafe. The lights were off in most of the library, except for one bulb over her desk, but you could feel the walls and walls of books. It felt safe.
Then, there is a pause.
We escape the wooden town and are running through the streets of another town, or the same town 100 years later. The streets are paved and there are sidewalks and two story clapboard houses painted white with low black iron fences and black iron railing up the concrete front steps. You couldn't see trees, but there were the shadows of trees on the fronts of the houses.
He took me into an older woman's house. It was more like a room in a house, really. A bed and a few small pieces of furniture, covered with books and papers. Behind one small dresser is a sliding door that looks like the entrance to a closet, but it's really a shower with a bathtub. She tucks me into the bathtub, and I spend most of the dream crouched down with my cheek resting on the porcelain edge.
I can hear voices of the sheriff's department entering the old woman's room. She sits quietly on the bed. They check all around, opening drawers, but don't notice the closet. Or, they see it, but can't imagine it being used behind the dresser. They leave.
And I wake up.
But I am curious that I get to be the protected in this dream. I still have to run, like always, but I am the one being saved, and there is someone to help me. This is new. I have been waiting for these dreams.
Friday, May 29, 2009
So you know
San Diego was lovely. Just lovely.
We did a million and one things like see Terminator, watch some of the Detroit Red Wings play the Chicago Blackhawks, see some incredible old fashioned country music in a church with stained glass windows peopled with gentlemen in cowboy hats and boots.
We strolled along the beach at Coronado, watched TWO plays in one day (The Glass Menagerie and Agatha Christie's Spider's Web), and ate truffles with an ocean view at sunset.
We got sun crisped watching the circus at Balboa Park, ate delicious Indian food at some sort of magical international food festival, we sipped at root beer floats in the afternoon heat, we threaded, connected at the fingertips, through two Mingeis, took in Body Worlds, witnessed an IMAX film on the oceans, and had the most dreamy and romantic dinner at the Prado, after which we twirled and danced our way back to the car. We sang along with Marty Robbins, Buck Owens and the best of them. We watched A Scanner Darkly and Lady in the Water and read Cinderella Skeleton outloud.
We met very nearly all of John's friends and yours truly even managed to polish off the last three balls in a game of pool, to be followed by navigating my skee ball right into the 100 pocket. We drank teas and coffees and ate breakfast burritos on John's front porch.
And of course seeing John was the best.
Even if we'd spent the entire weekend on the floor of his library peering up at the wall of books, it would have been the best time.
Except for the part when I have to get on an airplane again. That I don't like one bit.
I mean, I have to list out the things we did because I don't have the words for what it's like to see John.
I wish I could bring him to Oakland to show him the best of the little life I have here.
And I want to go back to Escondido. Even if he has to work all day, the thought of pulling weeds or reading in his library or playing banjo on his porch sounds just marvelous to me. To be there when he left and still there when he came back.
We did a million and one things like see Terminator, watch some of the Detroit Red Wings play the Chicago Blackhawks, see some incredible old fashioned country music in a church with stained glass windows peopled with gentlemen in cowboy hats and boots.
We strolled along the beach at Coronado, watched TWO plays in one day (The Glass Menagerie and Agatha Christie's Spider's Web), and ate truffles with an ocean view at sunset.
We got sun crisped watching the circus at Balboa Park, ate delicious Indian food at some sort of magical international food festival, we sipped at root beer floats in the afternoon heat, we threaded, connected at the fingertips, through two Mingeis, took in Body Worlds, witnessed an IMAX film on the oceans, and had the most dreamy and romantic dinner at the Prado, after which we twirled and danced our way back to the car. We sang along with Marty Robbins, Buck Owens and the best of them. We watched A Scanner Darkly and Lady in the Water and read Cinderella Skeleton outloud.
We met very nearly all of John's friends and yours truly even managed to polish off the last three balls in a game of pool, to be followed by navigating my skee ball right into the 100 pocket. We drank teas and coffees and ate breakfast burritos on John's front porch.
And of course seeing John was the best.
Even if we'd spent the entire weekend on the floor of his library peering up at the wall of books, it would have been the best time.
Except for the part when I have to get on an airplane again. That I don't like one bit.
I mean, I have to list out the things we did because I don't have the words for what it's like to see John.
I wish I could bring him to Oakland to show him the best of the little life I have here.
And I want to go back to Escondido. Even if he has to work all day, the thought of pulling weeds or reading in his library or playing banjo on his porch sounds just marvelous to me. To be there when he left and still there when he came back.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
>>--<3-<3-<3--->
It's just hours now until I see John again. There really isn't anything better than that. My heart's just swelling up in my chest.
It's official
Just bought roundtrip airfare from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Keflavik. I'm going to Iceland! I'm really going! I can't believe it. Iceland! Oh my goodness!
Monday, May 18, 2009
The San Francisco Botanical Garden needs your help
If you've been around the Botanical Garden at all the past few weeks, you will doubtless have seen the flyers, signs, protestors, petitions and general hullabaloo about the proposed $5 admission charge. If you're one of the apparently many people who signed that petition, you can pat yourself on the back because it sounds like the proposal has been defeated.
I know, you love the garden, but the garden needs your help.
Now, I've heard all manner of sass on both sides of the debate. Protestors claiming we're charging just to be spiteful and that the admission fee will make us all worse off since we'll have to fork it over to cover the cost of hiring people to man the gates and build whatever infrastructure is needed to take your money. On the other side, someone apparently suggested that if we can't afford all the plants in the garden we should just level the whole thing, fill it with grass and keep it fenced off because it's the one place in Golden Gate park you can take your toddlers to play without fear of bringing home dog bitten children who'll track poop onto your carpet. So, let me give you the inside scoop.
First of all, it's obvious from the $20 admission that other gardens charge that running a Botanical Garden costs money, and that money has to come from somewhere. No one's crazy about the idea of tacking an admission charge onto the 'last free thing in San Francisco,' but without money there is no Botanical Garden.
The garden you all love doesn't have enough gardeners as is, and the irrigation system we have now still requires us to do a huge amount of hand-watering, not to mention all the weeding, mulching, and heavy lifting required to keep our plants happy and beautiful. For you.
Insiders at the garden tell me that even the most conservative, worst case scenario estimates of the $5 admission charge would have given us an extra $100K annually. It would have meant a lot to us, but it was defeated. So, now we're asking for $7 from out of county visitors. You're right, charging admission will change the character of the park. It's a bummer, but the alternative of not having a garden at all is, I think, less palatable to us all, and having people at the gates will help us prevent a lot of the theft of rare plants we've seen in the past.
I don't believe that the folks opposing the admission charge honestly want to raze the garden to create a grassy dog-free play pen. I've spoken with them. We all want to keep the garden as the beautiful and welcoming part of the community that it is, but the city of San Francisco simply can't afford to keep it up with city tax dollars alone. So, let us out of towners pitch in.
As an out of county resident of the Bay Area, I'm asking you to please let me give my $7 to keep the garden alive. We all love the garden, let's not love it to death.
Here are a few things you can do to help:
*Come to the second public hearing and workshop on May 28 at 6:30 p.m. in the County Fair Building auditorium (that big building at the main entrance of the garden).
*Write or email Jared Blumenfeld, the Interim General Manager of the Recreation and Park Department, and tell him you support the non-resident admission fee to the Garden. Reiterate your understanding that it costs money to keep the Garden beautiful, safe, and watered. Email: GM.RPD@sfgov.org or Snail Mail: McLaren Lodge, 501 Stanyan Street, San Francisco, CA 94117
*Email your local San Francisco Supervisor to let them know you support the non-resident admission fee:
Eric Mar, District 1
Michela Alioto-Pier, District 2
David Chiu, District 3
Carmen Chu, District 4
Ross Mirkarimi, District 5
Chris Daly, District 6
Sean Elsbernd, District 7
Bevan Dufty, District 8
David Campos, District 9
Sophie Maxwell, District 10
John Avalos, District 11
Or, if politics isn't your thing,
*Become a member of the SF Botanical Garden.
I know, you love the garden, but the garden needs your help.
Now, I've heard all manner of sass on both sides of the debate. Protestors claiming we're charging just to be spiteful and that the admission fee will make us all worse off since we'll have to fork it over to cover the cost of hiring people to man the gates and build whatever infrastructure is needed to take your money. On the other side, someone apparently suggested that if we can't afford all the plants in the garden we should just level the whole thing, fill it with grass and keep it fenced off because it's the one place in Golden Gate park you can take your toddlers to play without fear of bringing home dog bitten children who'll track poop onto your carpet. So, let me give you the inside scoop.
First of all, it's obvious from the $20 admission that other gardens charge that running a Botanical Garden costs money, and that money has to come from somewhere. No one's crazy about the idea of tacking an admission charge onto the 'last free thing in San Francisco,' but without money there is no Botanical Garden.
The garden you all love doesn't have enough gardeners as is, and the irrigation system we have now still requires us to do a huge amount of hand-watering, not to mention all the weeding, mulching, and heavy lifting required to keep our plants happy and beautiful. For you.
Insiders at the garden tell me that even the most conservative, worst case scenario estimates of the $5 admission charge would have given us an extra $100K annually. It would have meant a lot to us, but it was defeated. So, now we're asking for $7 from out of county visitors. You're right, charging admission will change the character of the park. It's a bummer, but the alternative of not having a garden at all is, I think, less palatable to us all, and having people at the gates will help us prevent a lot of the theft of rare plants we've seen in the past.
I don't believe that the folks opposing the admission charge honestly want to raze the garden to create a grassy dog-free play pen. I've spoken with them. We all want to keep the garden as the beautiful and welcoming part of the community that it is, but the city of San Francisco simply can't afford to keep it up with city tax dollars alone. So, let us out of towners pitch in.
As an out of county resident of the Bay Area, I'm asking you to please let me give my $7 to keep the garden alive. We all love the garden, let's not love it to death.
Here are a few things you can do to help:
*Come to the second public hearing and workshop on May 28 at 6:30 p.m. in the County Fair Building auditorium (that big building at the main entrance of the garden).
*Write or email Jared Blumenfeld, the Interim General Manager of the Recreation and Park Department, and tell him you support the non-resident admission fee to the Garden. Reiterate your understanding that it costs money to keep the Garden beautiful, safe, and watered. Email: GM.RPD@sfgov.org or Snail Mail: McLaren Lodge, 501 Stanyan Street, San Francisco, CA 94117
*Email your local San Francisco Supervisor to let them know you support the non-resident admission fee:
Eric Mar, District 1
Michela Alioto-Pier, District 2
David Chiu, District 3
Carmen Chu, District 4
Ross Mirkarimi, District 5
Chris Daly, District 6
Sean Elsbernd, District 7
Bevan Dufty, District 8
David Campos, District 9
Sophie Maxwell, District 10
John Avalos, District 11
Or, if politics isn't your thing,
*Become a member of the SF Botanical Garden.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Firsts
I have just returned from a meeting with The Man, and I am still feeling pleasant. Imagine that.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Spirit quest
I've been squeezing the research of this and that into what few spare hours I can scrape together amidst the general ugliness that May has been so far.
My poor parents have had more than an earful of my particular malady brought on by the inevitable beginnings of The Change of One's Life Direction. To be honest though, I think they derive some slight pleasure from my overly frequent phone calls begging advice. Is that not meant to be one of the Joys of Parenting? Particularly when it coincides with Advancement in Age?
All I know is, my past self did a good job on insisting I carve out a few weeks in Iceland this summer. Time enough for something of a spirit quest to my magnetic north. I couldn't need it more. Iceland, my love, we shall no longer be estranged.
My poor parents have had more than an earful of my particular malady brought on by the inevitable beginnings of The Change of One's Life Direction. To be honest though, I think they derive some slight pleasure from my overly frequent phone calls begging advice. Is that not meant to be one of the Joys of Parenting? Particularly when it coincides with Advancement in Age?
All I know is, my past self did a good job on insisting I carve out a few weeks in Iceland this summer. Time enough for something of a spirit quest to my magnetic north. I couldn't need it more. Iceland, my love, we shall no longer be estranged.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Fighting the fight
There's an episode of Radiolab that talks about an alternate version of the Trojan War, this one according to Archilicus, in which the 'Greeks invade, get their butts kicked, and then run, run like sissies.'
The Greek reads, One doesn't have to call it weakness or cowardice having to retreat. No, there does exist a proper time for flight, which Archilicus celebrates because sometimes you have to turn and run, saving yourself to fight another battle another day, and he claims there is no shame in that - in changing your priorities.
I'm thinking about Archilicus today. This past week has been clouded black by the smoky fires of a thousand troops waiting for the battle call. For the record, I believe I could win. If something is not right, I do not believe in standing idly by. I am not one to quit, but of all the crusading I could devote my energy to, this isn't the war I want to claim victory of.
I believe I have acted honorably. And I believe the time has come to make my exit.
The Greek reads, One doesn't have to call it weakness or cowardice having to retreat. No, there does exist a proper time for flight, which Archilicus celebrates because sometimes you have to turn and run, saving yourself to fight another battle another day, and he claims there is no shame in that - in changing your priorities.
I'm thinking about Archilicus today. This past week has been clouded black by the smoky fires of a thousand troops waiting for the battle call. For the record, I believe I could win. If something is not right, I do not believe in standing idly by. I am not one to quit, but of all the crusading I could devote my energy to, this isn't the war I want to claim victory of.
I believe I have acted honorably. And I believe the time has come to make my exit.
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