I finished book seven yesterday. And no, I don't think it's over for good. And no, the end did not include my ultimate prediction, but I was right about one important thing that shall not be divulged on this page.
Is it a vice to be an addict? Does the answer truly lie in the source? Or the outcome? Do we measure evil by the number of victims?
If the latter is so, I can count the ones who's calls I ignored as I reached pages 133 & 556, for example. Or the stories that fell on deaf ears as I relinquished my soul to the outcome, and didn't much care what happened yesterday or the day before, or what was happening that moment, if it wasn't a part of her world. JK's, of course.
I saw the new movie this week as well. And that didn't help in the glazey-eye and disconnected-brain department. But isn't that what Harry Potter is all about? Becoming fully invested in the possibilities that are held in the realm of fantasy?
To quote an old friend: "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"
27.7.07
20.7.07
The Red House
I had a dream last night. I was in the house that we grew up in, the red one that burned down in Pawlet. Each room had layers and layers of wallpaper coating the walls, and I was looking for a specific one, cream background with brown illustrations of ladies in hoop dresses. There were so many different patterns, and I was peeling them back to find the one I was looking for. In our bedroom, (all three of us shared one little room) I peeled and peeled until I got to the last layer and it was A.A. Milne style portraits of we three girls.
The red house. What a stock pile of memories. The laundry room that was unfinished and the insulation was always coming out of the walls. The bathroom where I first learned about what sex was from a porno mag kept under the sink. The kitchen where I found little Soe Woe having a convulsion and I ran to tell Mummy "Soe's doing something funny on the kitchen floor and she won't stop!" The living room where the record player and my treasured collection lived: Willie Nelson, Donna Summer, Don Francisco, Captain Beaky. I would steal Emmy's beautiful flowery dress that was too small for me, put it on and dance till I got caught and was told to take it off. The living room that housed the potbellied iron wood stove, the table and settle, the picture of weather vanes. This room was the background for our family portrait right before Mummy took us away to England, because she'd finally had enough of living the life of the wife of a drunk. The back shed, where the wood was kept, and the laundry was hung. When the river flooded one year, all the nappies that hung on the line were whisked away to the dam. And the upstairs. When you stepped up the front steps onto the porch, there was a door. When you went through the door, there was another door on your right that led to where we lived, but there were stairs on the left. These led to the "attic". I remember going up there only once, and it was one big huge room the size of our entire house. And it was full of light, owing to the tall, broken windows that lined every side. One big, empty room full of light and the wooden floor was carpeted with broken glass and bird poop. No mystery, no darkness, nothing. One pure place on top of our house.
And our bedroom. Papa made my bed and it had no mattress. I liked sleeping on the hard wood, it reminded me of being a cowboy and sleeping on the ground. I had one doll and her name was Victoria. I had to give her to Emmy at one point, and I believe that this was the first strand in a long rope of resentment that held us for many years. But we would play with her together sometimes. We pierced Victoria's ears at least eight times in each ear.
And Mummy & Papa's bedroom, where I could spend hours in her wedding dress, and going through the plastic bag that was full of treasures, all the gold and silver from England, a constant reminder that although we were very poor, we sprang from wealth and nobility. In this very room, my mother told me many years after the fact, an angel stayed her hand from an awful deed that seemed like the only answer for a woman at the end of her rope. The rope that had held her together for so many years of struggle, disappointment, betrayal finally snapped, and the one time that she was capable of committing an evil act, mystery stepped in and saved us all.
I was on the loo at Marston Magna Manor, the one by the kitchen with the water container up above and you had to pull the chain down to flush. "Papa burned the house down!" I remember talking to him on the phone, but I don't know what we said. We'd been in England for 6 months, I was growing fond of exploring the haunts and nooks of Marston, my little school where we had to wear a uniform and a tie. Gaffa's garage with his old cars and various projects. All of the grand old rooms filled with the family's antique furniture, a life of heritage and history, a solid sense of who we were.
But Papa burned the house down and found Jesus, and we were moving back to Vermont. Mummy decided to give him one more chance.
Good thing.
The red house. What a stock pile of memories. The laundry room that was unfinished and the insulation was always coming out of the walls. The bathroom where I first learned about what sex was from a porno mag kept under the sink. The kitchen where I found little Soe Woe having a convulsion and I ran to tell Mummy "Soe's doing something funny on the kitchen floor and she won't stop!" The living room where the record player and my treasured collection lived: Willie Nelson, Donna Summer, Don Francisco, Captain Beaky. I would steal Emmy's beautiful flowery dress that was too small for me, put it on and dance till I got caught and was told to take it off. The living room that housed the potbellied iron wood stove, the table and settle, the picture of weather vanes. This room was the background for our family portrait right before Mummy took us away to England, because she'd finally had enough of living the life of the wife of a drunk. The back shed, where the wood was kept, and the laundry was hung. When the river flooded one year, all the nappies that hung on the line were whisked away to the dam. And the upstairs. When you stepped up the front steps onto the porch, there was a door. When you went through the door, there was another door on your right that led to where we lived, but there were stairs on the left. These led to the "attic". I remember going up there only once, and it was one big huge room the size of our entire house. And it was full of light, owing to the tall, broken windows that lined every side. One big, empty room full of light and the wooden floor was carpeted with broken glass and bird poop. No mystery, no darkness, nothing. One pure place on top of our house.
And our bedroom. Papa made my bed and it had no mattress. I liked sleeping on the hard wood, it reminded me of being a cowboy and sleeping on the ground. I had one doll and her name was Victoria. I had to give her to Emmy at one point, and I believe that this was the first strand in a long rope of resentment that held us for many years. But we would play with her together sometimes. We pierced Victoria's ears at least eight times in each ear.
And Mummy & Papa's bedroom, where I could spend hours in her wedding dress, and going through the plastic bag that was full of treasures, all the gold and silver from England, a constant reminder that although we were very poor, we sprang from wealth and nobility. In this very room, my mother told me many years after the fact, an angel stayed her hand from an awful deed that seemed like the only answer for a woman at the end of her rope. The rope that had held her together for so many years of struggle, disappointment, betrayal finally snapped, and the one time that she was capable of committing an evil act, mystery stepped in and saved us all.
I was on the loo at Marston Magna Manor, the one by the kitchen with the water container up above and you had to pull the chain down to flush. "Papa burned the house down!" I remember talking to him on the phone, but I don't know what we said. We'd been in England for 6 months, I was growing fond of exploring the haunts and nooks of Marston, my little school where we had to wear a uniform and a tie. Gaffa's garage with his old cars and various projects. All of the grand old rooms filled with the family's antique furniture, a life of heritage and history, a solid sense of who we were.
But Papa burned the house down and found Jesus, and we were moving back to Vermont. Mummy decided to give him one more chance.
Good thing.
18.7.07
Four Days Away
I went to some amazing places this weekend. First off, Santa Barbara is a wonderful town! After 8 hours of driving around searching for this camping area that ended up being not only full (they don't take reservations), but snooty AND sucky (don't bother with Jalama Beach, whatever you've heard: The 45 minute drive in beats the actual campground), we drove the 1 hour back to Santa Barbara to find every hotel booked and overpriced. But I was praying for a miracle as fatigue, hunger and frustration were threatening to blow the vacation into smithereens. And lo and behold, we found our haven of rest at the Hope Ranch Inn. And right next door was the best, cheapest Mexican food I've had yet. And the best, strongest, margaritas I've ever had in my life. For 5$!
We wandered around downtown on State street for hours that night, looking in shop windows, reading the menus posted outside of the numerous cafes that line the street, and I kept thinking how much my sisters and parents would love this town, and if they come out to visit, we should all just meet there!
Then, we noticed a light shining down a darkened alley, and it looked like an antiques store. It was 9 o'clock, so I was naturally curious. We crept closer and saw the most magical, wonderful shop with two old ladies running about. It was full of amazing and wonderful treasures. And it was surprisingly organized for containing so much stuff! We were thoroughly enchanted.
The next day, we journeyed up north to our very special secret spot.
There was no running water, outhouses, and complete peace. We went skinny dipping in the ocean because there was no one there to be offended. We saw a group of seals sunning themselves on the rocks, I saw two more dead seals, and one of them was in the process of being enjoyed and devoured by a band of turkey vultures.
We went hiking in ancient sand dunes, we collected rocks and I'm going to make a necklace out of them because they all naturally have holes in them. We further explored the culinary delights of campfire cookin', and although my famous "beer corn" still wins out every time for me, the marinated and flame grilled asparagus came in at a close second. We used the aero bed in the tent, and it was sheer luxury!
This morning, we went into town for hot coffee and breakfast at a garden cafe nestled in the crook of an overgrown nursery. Then, we went to Hearst Castle, and that was a trip and a half, figuratively. My favorite part was the outdoor swimming pool. The sky was so blue and the water as well, and the marble statues so white and smooth, and the view looking down the mountain to the ocean, it was all quite breathtaking.
We got milkshakes on the way home and I have to say that I will treasure this time that I had for a long time to come. I'm feeling grateful.
We wandered around downtown on State street for hours that night, looking in shop windows, reading the menus posted outside of the numerous cafes that line the street, and I kept thinking how much my sisters and parents would love this town, and if they come out to visit, we should all just meet there!
Then, we noticed a light shining down a darkened alley, and it looked like an antiques store. It was 9 o'clock, so I was naturally curious. We crept closer and saw the most magical, wonderful shop with two old ladies running about. It was full of amazing and wonderful treasures. And it was surprisingly organized for containing so much stuff! We were thoroughly enchanted.
The next day, we journeyed up north to our very special secret spot.
There was no running water, outhouses, and complete peace. We went skinny dipping in the ocean because there was no one there to be offended. We saw a group of seals sunning themselves on the rocks, I saw two more dead seals, and one of them was in the process of being enjoyed and devoured by a band of turkey vultures.
We went hiking in ancient sand dunes, we collected rocks and I'm going to make a necklace out of them because they all naturally have holes in them. We further explored the culinary delights of campfire cookin', and although my famous "beer corn" still wins out every time for me, the marinated and flame grilled asparagus came in at a close second. We used the aero bed in the tent, and it was sheer luxury!
This morning, we went into town for hot coffee and breakfast at a garden cafe nestled in the crook of an overgrown nursery. Then, we went to Hearst Castle, and that was a trip and a half, figuratively. My favorite part was the outdoor swimming pool. The sky was so blue and the water as well, and the marble statues so white and smooth, and the view looking down the mountain to the ocean, it was all quite breathtaking.
We got milkshakes on the way home and I have to say that I will treasure this time that I had for a long time to come. I'm feeling grateful.
13.7.07
This week
Tomorrow, I leave for a four-day camping trip up north. It will be good to get away, or more, to go toward something. This week has been like an emotional cheese grater, and I'm feeling raw, like when your knuckles get too close and some skin falls into the cheese. (That never happened when I brought a dish to your dinner party, I swear!)
I'm thinking about loss. Lost chances, lost places, lost people. I never think when I say goodbye to someone that this could be the last time we see each other, this could be the last time I hear your voice, put my arms around you and feel your body, your physical being. I'm always so caught in my heart, in my head, and feel as though I will always be with everyone I love, forever.
There is a lot of truth in that sentiment, at least in my reality. But upon reflection, I worry that there is an automatic detachment that occurs, a defense mechanism honed by years and years of saying goodbye for good. I remember one morning when we left a town in a big U-Haul, and my friend was standing there in our driveway, waving good-bye. She was a mess. Tears everywhere, sobbing uncontrollably. I don't remember if I cried. I have had a hard time crying when I'm meant to. I get salt water performance anxiety, and it snowballs. The more I feel like I should be crying, the more it doesn't come. I can't feel fully in the moment. Maybe I'm more concerned with what others are feeling than my own feeling.
Now, when I do feel the moment, and I can't hold it in, I feel proud of myself, and relieved. Getting better at feeling, or allowing myself to feel. It's so messed up. So backwards. Or forward?
I'm going to go into the ocean and let it roll me around. I'm going to collect some rocks. I'm going to blow my boyfriend's mind with my campfire culinary skills. And I'm going to get to the root of what has happened this week and let myself feel it all.
I'm thinking about loss. Lost chances, lost places, lost people. I never think when I say goodbye to someone that this could be the last time we see each other, this could be the last time I hear your voice, put my arms around you and feel your body, your physical being. I'm always so caught in my heart, in my head, and feel as though I will always be with everyone I love, forever.
There is a lot of truth in that sentiment, at least in my reality. But upon reflection, I worry that there is an automatic detachment that occurs, a defense mechanism honed by years and years of saying goodbye for good. I remember one morning when we left a town in a big U-Haul, and my friend was standing there in our driveway, waving good-bye. She was a mess. Tears everywhere, sobbing uncontrollably. I don't remember if I cried. I have had a hard time crying when I'm meant to. I get salt water performance anxiety, and it snowballs. The more I feel like I should be crying, the more it doesn't come. I can't feel fully in the moment. Maybe I'm more concerned with what others are feeling than my own feeling.
Now, when I do feel the moment, and I can't hold it in, I feel proud of myself, and relieved. Getting better at feeling, or allowing myself to feel. It's so messed up. So backwards. Or forward?
I'm going to go into the ocean and let it roll me around. I'm going to collect some rocks. I'm going to blow my boyfriend's mind with my campfire culinary skills. And I'm going to get to the root of what has happened this week and let myself feel it all.
10.7.07
I'm Holly Go-Lightly. I fly by the seat of my pants. Live in the moment. Drawn equally by chance and curiosity as by my ideals and my idea of destiny.
I'm bad with money. I hate money, so as soon as I get it, I go out of my way to get rid of it. Especially via hot dates and luxury items that are well beyond my means. It's very exciting and dramatic.
At night, I can hear people screaming at each other in their houses. Why do people scream at each other? Do they feel like no one is listening?
There are a lot of bugs that live in my back yard. They don't scream, they chirp or sing. Recently, I decided to let go of my feelings of animosity/ambivalence that I've harboured toward the roses in the backyard. I don't know why I don't like roses. It's not just the roses, it's every plant that was here when I came, that isn't mine and I wouldn't have chosen. So, I let go and decided to water them. One plant in particular hasn't been doing well. It's a miniature palm of sorts, and I gave it a good drenching, it seemed like it needed it. I went down the row, giving up my peace offering to the jasmine, mint, roses,and many unknown etcetera's. When I came back to the palm, however, I noticed some activity.
Unknowingly, I had caused a state of disaster for the ant tribe that had made it's city in the heart of this palm, and every able-bodied member was desperately trying to save the eggs from the flood. Thousands upon thousands of frantically scrambling insects all working together to help save the next generation. It was truly awe-inspiring, in spite of the heavy guilt that colored my unabashed observation.
I like watching ants. Especially ant wars. I've only seen those on the sidewalks in Vermont. First, you notice something dark up ahead. Then, you see that it's moving. Finally, you realize that it's a writhing pile of ants. And upon closer inspection, (you're down on your knees with your face less than a foot away from the activity at this point), you see that every ant is paired with another but the color or size of it's partner is slightly different, and you see that all the ones that look one way are coming out of one hole, while the others are from the hole on the other side of the crack. And they are fighting to the death, the martyrs carried back down the holes for funeral or food. Probably both.
Funny, the idea of insects killing each other doesn't bother me, but the idea of me killing insects fills me full of sorrow. And war, reading about old wars doesn't usually bother me as much as reading about current ones. Old wars seem more civilised. Like an ant war. Hand to hand, face to face combat. Puts a tangible price on what you're fighting for.
I need to find a good way of thinking about money. A new way. I think I'll look for books. At the library.
I'm bad with money. I hate money, so as soon as I get it, I go out of my way to get rid of it. Especially via hot dates and luxury items that are well beyond my means. It's very exciting and dramatic.
At night, I can hear people screaming at each other in their houses. Why do people scream at each other? Do they feel like no one is listening?
There are a lot of bugs that live in my back yard. They don't scream, they chirp or sing. Recently, I decided to let go of my feelings of animosity/ambivalence that I've harboured toward the roses in the backyard. I don't know why I don't like roses. It's not just the roses, it's every plant that was here when I came, that isn't mine and I wouldn't have chosen. So, I let go and decided to water them. One plant in particular hasn't been doing well. It's a miniature palm of sorts, and I gave it a good drenching, it seemed like it needed it. I went down the row, giving up my peace offering to the jasmine, mint, roses,and many unknown etcetera's. When I came back to the palm, however, I noticed some activity.
Unknowingly, I had caused a state of disaster for the ant tribe that had made it's city in the heart of this palm, and every able-bodied member was desperately trying to save the eggs from the flood. Thousands upon thousands of frantically scrambling insects all working together to help save the next generation. It was truly awe-inspiring, in spite of the heavy guilt that colored my unabashed observation.
I like watching ants. Especially ant wars. I've only seen those on the sidewalks in Vermont. First, you notice something dark up ahead. Then, you see that it's moving. Finally, you realize that it's a writhing pile of ants. And upon closer inspection, (you're down on your knees with your face less than a foot away from the activity at this point), you see that every ant is paired with another but the color or size of it's partner is slightly different, and you see that all the ones that look one way are coming out of one hole, while the others are from the hole on the other side of the crack. And they are fighting to the death, the martyrs carried back down the holes for funeral or food. Probably both.
Funny, the idea of insects killing each other doesn't bother me, but the idea of me killing insects fills me full of sorrow. And war, reading about old wars doesn't usually bother me as much as reading about current ones. Old wars seem more civilised. Like an ant war. Hand to hand, face to face combat. Puts a tangible price on what you're fighting for.
I need to find a good way of thinking about money. A new way. I think I'll look for books. At the library.
5.7.07
Once again, I am faced with the fact that I haven't written in a while. This quilts my endeavor with a sense of obligation to myself; to write something meaningful that encompasses what I've been experiencing in my daily life.
But that's not what I'm going to do right now. The only thing that I feel like writing about is food. So I'd like to impart my new method of home-made fast-food.
I work in a place that is saturated with ways to spend money on food and drink. Water, coffee, salads, sandwiches, burritos, etc. What you want for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, you can buy here. The problem is, I don't really like any of their food options. Every time I have "treated" myself to a meal in one of these restaurants, the experience has been less a treat than a treatment in realizing that I cook better than they do, and I know what the ingredients are in my cooking, and it's cheaper, by far.
So this is what I do: I have a green San Pellegrino bottle that I fill every morning with water from my Britta filter and stop up with a cork from a wine bottle. Drinking from glass is so much nicer than drinking from plastic, it is cooler and more refreshing. I bring this bottle with me everywhere.
I make my coffee at home. There is only one good coffee shop in the area, and that is where I buy my freshly roasted beans. Kean Coffee is the baby of the former owner of Dietrich coffee (the latter recently bought up by Starbucks), and there is only one location, and it's not in my neighborhood. So I go there once a week and save tons of dough via this extreme act of self indulgence. Paying 2$ for a cup of coffee at Joe Shmoe that tastes like... nothing good, that's for sure- seems so ridiculous weighed against the option of enjoying a cup of a dream for a fraction of the price. We are paying with more than currency for these "coffee shops on every corner" - every time I settle for convenience over quality, I sacrifice a piece of the good taste that took so many years of experimentation to cultivate. It is simply not worth it.
I make a big batch of some grainy tofu veggie thing, with different spices, sauces, what have you, every few days. These concoctions are stored in reused glass jars- meal-sized portions that I can grab out of the fridge and throw into my lunch bag in the morning. Add an avocado or some carrot sticks & hummus, and I am living it up for peanuts.
Not only is the content and quickness of my meal important, the presentation has taken on new meaning as well. I have a flowery dish-towel that I use as a place mat. I have a set of wooden chopsticks. I lay out my place mat, pull out the sticks, open up my various jars and bottles, and I have presented myself with a personal luxury experience. An experience that has a very small monetary value has endless spiritual value to me. My lunches are now a time of self-expression and rejuvenation.
And once my tomatoes start turning all shades of red, pink, and orange... this will be a truly amazing ritual. One that does not eat up my money, or my time. Spending money does eat up your time anyway. I encourage everyone to try to incorporate a tiny piece of self-indulging personal luxury into your daily life. (And don't say that you can't cook. Try eatingwell.com or epicurious.com for some recipe ideas. If you can read, you can cook.) Oh, so this entry is about my daily life. duh.
But that's not what I'm going to do right now. The only thing that I feel like writing about is food. So I'd like to impart my new method of home-made fast-food.
I work in a place that is saturated with ways to spend money on food and drink. Water, coffee, salads, sandwiches, burritos, etc. What you want for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, you can buy here. The problem is, I don't really like any of their food options. Every time I have "treated" myself to a meal in one of these restaurants, the experience has been less a treat than a treatment in realizing that I cook better than they do, and I know what the ingredients are in my cooking, and it's cheaper, by far.
So this is what I do: I have a green San Pellegrino bottle that I fill every morning with water from my Britta filter and stop up with a cork from a wine bottle. Drinking from glass is so much nicer than drinking from plastic, it is cooler and more refreshing. I bring this bottle with me everywhere.
I make my coffee at home. There is only one good coffee shop in the area, and that is where I buy my freshly roasted beans. Kean Coffee is the baby of the former owner of Dietrich coffee (the latter recently bought up by Starbucks), and there is only one location, and it's not in my neighborhood. So I go there once a week and save tons of dough via this extreme act of self indulgence. Paying 2$ for a cup of coffee at Joe Shmoe that tastes like... nothing good, that's for sure- seems so ridiculous weighed against the option of enjoying a cup of a dream for a fraction of the price. We are paying with more than currency for these "coffee shops on every corner" - every time I settle for convenience over quality, I sacrifice a piece of the good taste that took so many years of experimentation to cultivate. It is simply not worth it.
I make a big batch of some grainy tofu veggie thing, with different spices, sauces, what have you, every few days. These concoctions are stored in reused glass jars- meal-sized portions that I can grab out of the fridge and throw into my lunch bag in the morning. Add an avocado or some carrot sticks & hummus, and I am living it up for peanuts.
Not only is the content and quickness of my meal important, the presentation has taken on new meaning as well. I have a flowery dish-towel that I use as a place mat. I have a set of wooden chopsticks. I lay out my place mat, pull out the sticks, open up my various jars and bottles, and I have presented myself with a personal luxury experience. An experience that has a very small monetary value has endless spiritual value to me. My lunches are now a time of self-expression and rejuvenation.
And once my tomatoes start turning all shades of red, pink, and orange... this will be a truly amazing ritual. One that does not eat up my money, or my time. Spending money does eat up your time anyway. I encourage everyone to try to incorporate a tiny piece of self-indulging personal luxury into your daily life. (And don't say that you can't cook. Try eatingwell.com or epicurious.com for some recipe ideas. If you can read, you can cook.) Oh, so this entry is about my daily life. duh.
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