Rorschach

I have discovered that when I need to get into a writing rhythm at work or need to meet a deadline, I either listen to the new agey techno CD I stole from my college roommate or Stone Temple Pilots Purple.  Without fail, one of them inspires me.  I'm not sure how I feel about that.

(a)musing: small things

• Went to a site in Montara, Ca this morning. It was foggy and cold and I have never seen so many banana slugs in my life. This one was in love with a primrose.
• Flickr apparently doesn't allow you to mass download your own photos. This is ridiculous. There are a ton of pirate type programs you can download to help you do it, but I have had bad luck with that before. My flickr account has all the pictures I lost when my hard drive crashed (no, not backed up, yes, facepalm). I ordered two CDs from QOOP, a service partnered with Flickr that will do it for you. It cost me $35. Waste of money? No. I'll save that much by not renewing Flickr this year. Download any pics you want now.
• I am going to clean my apartment from top to bottom this weekend. I considered paying someone to do it (I have only done that once; it was glorious), but since I just spent $35 on photos and August was a heavy retail therapy month, I'll be scrubbing away myself.
• I leave for vacation soon. To say I am excited would be the understatement of this new decade.
• I watched all of LOST. I thought it was fantastic and beautiful.

small spaces

I am house-sitting in San Rafael again, in a house on the edge of Lagunitas creek. The place is fondly referred to as "The Villa" due to the relaxed Mediterranean vibe it creates. I almost forgot to come into work today, the sun room (with its tile and coffee and wifi and early hour sun) is that enticing.

The Villa is very quiet, and as such, you would think I would sleep like a baby. But no. Without the usual drone of buses and the general hum of San Francisco, every creak in the house and every movement old lady cat Cleo makes sounds like someone breaking in or a prehistoric animal tip toe-ing to eat me (having obviously just come through the anomaly in the closet). The large spaces in a house versus a small studio are spaces for unwelcome thoughts, intruders.

I think this is something you adjust to -- the quiet, the space. In my small city apartment, my belongings crowd around me, whereas in this house I can see baseboards. At least Miss Cleo, she snores, which is kindof like a mini bus curled up by my pillow.

After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes

A small grey file on a white screen, blinking with a question mark on it, can not be a good sign. I wanted to think my computer was crinkling its nose, scrunching its eyebrows, and would soon be able to make a decision, as in, turn all the way on.

No. The small grey file blinks at you. Then stares at you. Then tells you what you dread.

I lost all my files. From about the last two years, every new photo, every new song, every new written piece that wasn't emailed or uploaded to various places: gone. Poof. Like wind. Like fog lifting. Like the defroster kicking in on your front windshield.

At the Apple genius bar, young Peru, in his uber bright blue shirt, remarked on my calm (apparently a man lost his shit the day before). Really, it's the most calm I have felt in weeks. I felt swaddled in cotton. I knew this should be a distraught, devastating experience, but I couldn't get myself there.

And I can't help but feel like it is a lesson in letting go.

Sure. I am sad my Scotland and Portland trip pictures vanished... but there are ways to get my favorites. Homemade movies? Also gone. Taxes, bill files, finance spreadsheets, a comic book I made my nieces, my christmas card addresses... poof. My writings during the past two years -- including a short story and a few vignettes --- gone and gone. But all these things feel transient anyway. Some of them were uploaded to this blog, some of them to facebook, but even if they weren't... it's not like my brain had a flashing grey file. And in my memories, there is movement and everything is in 3D.

So, here's to you, little grey flashing folder. I tip my glass. And crinkle my nose.

mini-conversation (with laundry, with geraniums)

photo by Mr. Bones

Fall is good. Cold weather is good. Ants are bad. They are in my kitchen, coming in from unseen corners, vexing me, causing me to curse and spray kitchen friendly bug spray. My building was built in like 1910. Points of entry for teeny tiny things are endless. Whelms.

But also good? Pumpkin spice soy lattes. I'm back to Fall is good.

I have been doing pilates, stretching tiny corners of my abs, of my ribs (who knew there are mini-muscles there?). I make more space for pumpkin. Pilates is fun, is like dancing and then crying as you lift your legs just one more time (body shakes).

Olga, my Russian neighbor is back from St. Petersburg. When she is here, our shared garden on the back porch thrives. The plants--- they receive more attention and love and I think they know we enjoy sharing them. The flowers and vines may also bask in the company of the multi-colored laundry Olga hangs on the line. I look out my kitchen window, between the geranium and the aeonium to a view of undergarments and jeans and sweaters hanging, swaying. She likes to modify her clothes with ribbon -- a red sweater this morning had pink ribboned stripes woven in. The clothes feel like friends, or at least their presence. The mums need little encouragement now though--- their flowered heads begin to bow with new growth coming from underneath...

I'm still not sure what to do about the ants.

this morning felt like winter

Litquake hits SF every year around the same time as reds and oranges and cinnamon. Last night, there was a reading and lecture down at the Hobart building on steampunk and it's uses in literature. Steampunk is fascinating to me in its contextual sense; the antiquation of modern technology, the idea the modern world subsists on steam energy, gives the reader something to relate to (modern tech) but immerses such concepts in a surreal and twangy setting. Think Mark Twain meets Apple computer. So, yeah, intriguing. Almost as much as the crowd such steamy punky readings attract-- there were top hats and hats with gears on them and barkeep vests and really long, really impressive beards. The gathering was punk'd, steamwise.

Unfortunately, my number 61 kept me from getting a seat in an auditorium that seated 60. Yes, the fact that I held the door for two individuals as I entered the building did cross my mind, but oh well. The rest of my group had even higher numbers, so the organizers set up a speaker so that we could listen to the readings in the lobby (where the food was!). At first, I was slightly disappointed by this development, but then I experienced unexpected joy; all of us, sitting there on couches drinking soda and beer and wine, were essentially listening to a live radio broadcast of someone reading a steampunk influenced story. Can you get more immersed in the genre than that? Add the old timely clothing present, and I was anticipating a horse hitch when we exited onto Market Street.

"One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."

Lights were too bright last week. And sounds. They were sharp, piercing, stabbing at my eardrums. A virus took my feet out from under me and forced me to stay still. Bedrest reminded me of before times, when ladies would lounge for days, lackluster and laudanum, fanning and staring. There is a certain elegance to resigning yourself to nothing; the days go in, they go out, buses go by, children come and go from school, but there you lie, separate.

And bored. I can confirm there is such a thing as too much television. I'm on hiatus. I don't know--time lying there doing nothing can't help but be reflective and I was forced to face the things I have let become dusty: the scientific manuscript I wanted to publish, my violin, even a half knit hat. A fever breaking and rejuvenation is euphoric.

One of my decisions? I need to go on a trip. And this may be a result of watching too many Jane Austen movies last week, or from my contemplation of laudanum, but I'd like to go to a cottage somewhere misty and chilly, requiring multiple layers and scarves, in a small town with two pubs and lots of trails for walking. I'm thinking Ireland, maybe the UK, maybe soon.