Tonight, I saw my grandmother's hair on the Metro. My Mormor, my mother's mother. No, it wasn't my grandmother (not the wonderful still-living-at-age-96 Nuclear Grammy, but Mormor, who has been dead nineteen years now), but it could have been.
This was a woman with lovely silver hair who had recently been to the hairdresser, not for a haircut, but for her weekly style. Her hair was pouffed up, teased, and shellacked into place. The hairspray would probably deflect bullets better than Kevlar or whatever does deflect bullets.
She looked out of time and place, a relic of the sixties and seventies, alive and kicking in 2008. And she wasn't that old: she was probably in her early sixties, so in the seventies she would have been in her thirties, which would seem too young to have the weekly hairstyle habit.
She also had a rain hat -- one of the plastic ones. I almost hugged her.
September 30, 2008
September 28, 2008
Patterns and Complexity
One of my college professors didn't like me knitting in class. Even though he knew I was fully engaged in the class (I did the reading, I participated in discussions, etc. etc.*) he just didn't like it. I explained to him that I concentrated better if I kept my hands busy. I also spent one day not knitting and then showed him my doodles, I mean notes, after class. During my second class with him, he accepted that I was going to knit. But he always made sniping comments about needlework/knitting/whatever being boring and repetitious work that suited people who liked boring and repetitious work.
I wrote a paper on knitting guilds (male) in England and South America. With copious footnotes about knitting sailors and lobstermen (the rope inside traps used to be hand knitted). He couldn't stop himself. And of course, I incorporated the idea that doing something like knitting was somehow a less significant interest or hobby than say, philately, bungee jumping, go-cart racing (because driving a small combustion engine vehicle around in circles takes great levels of creativity, intelligence and isn't boring -- except driving around in circles is pretty much the definition of boredom), dog breeding, playing poker, or collecting navel lint.
Of course, knitting is repetitious. But its the creation of something that can be very complex based on variations on a simple theme. There really are two stitches in knitting, which are simply the reverse of one another: a purl is a backwards knit and a knit is a backwards purl, yet with those two stitches, one can create things that look like this.** Well, it's a little more complicated than that, but not much. With a knit, a purl, a yarn over, an invisible increase, a right angled decrease, a left angled decrease and two different ways of knitting three stitches together, you can make just about anything: Aran Island cable sweaters, Madeira lace, Fair Isle patterns, Shetland lace, and just about any other type of knitted fabric you have ever seen.
Most things are repetitious in some way: music has themes and variations. Bach's fugues are delights of repeated and varied themes. Glenn Gould's Goldberg Variations remind me of knitting: you take a few different move, play them at different pitches, and see what plays out.
I no longer feel apologetic about being a craft-oriented middled-aged woman. Heck, I could be making little annoying tchotchkes out of styrofoam and wrapping paper, but no, I'm making beautiful clothing, household items, and things of real beauty. And I realized that many people feel this same way.
Innana told me that she thought knitting was more high-brow than crochet. Of course, Innana crochets. I didn't agree, but I've looked into it. Knitting has been around for possibly more than a thousand years*** whereas crochet didn't turn up at least by people writing about it until the 19th century. Irish women did crochet (they also knitted beautifully, but there you go), and in the wake of the Potato Famine, ladies would knit and their Irish servants would crochet. Of course, you can make amazing lace with crochet. I'm trying to teach myself.
I say I don't get the dismissing certain crafts as declasse, but I do it myself with crafts I don't do. Maybe that's just human nature. But I think it's amazing, the variety of fabric one can create with one hook or two needles. And I'm looking forward to learning more variations on a theme. Increasingly complex variations.
*I got an A in the class and was told my exam in that class received the highest grade, but he didn't like that I could pay attention to what he said while knitting.
**I'll brag a bit here: I can knit more complicated and beautiful things. That was what I was working on last year. I've moved on.
***I have not researched this in detail -- I'm writing from memory of what I've read before. Those with direct links, more knowledge, whatever, please do share.
I wrote a paper on knitting guilds (male) in England and South America. With copious footnotes about knitting sailors and lobstermen (the rope inside traps used to be hand knitted). He couldn't stop himself. And of course, I incorporated the idea that doing something like knitting was somehow a less significant interest or hobby than say, philately, bungee jumping, go-cart racing (because driving a small combustion engine vehicle around in circles takes great levels of creativity, intelligence and isn't boring -- except driving around in circles is pretty much the definition of boredom), dog breeding, playing poker, or collecting navel lint.
Of course, knitting is repetitious. But its the creation of something that can be very complex based on variations on a simple theme. There really are two stitches in knitting, which are simply the reverse of one another: a purl is a backwards knit and a knit is a backwards purl, yet with those two stitches, one can create things that look like this.** Well, it's a little more complicated than that, but not much. With a knit, a purl, a yarn over, an invisible increase, a right angled decrease, a left angled decrease and two different ways of knitting three stitches together, you can make just about anything: Aran Island cable sweaters, Madeira lace, Fair Isle patterns, Shetland lace, and just about any other type of knitted fabric you have ever seen.
Most things are repetitious in some way: music has themes and variations. Bach's fugues are delights of repeated and varied themes. Glenn Gould's Goldberg Variations remind me of knitting: you take a few different move, play them at different pitches, and see what plays out.
I no longer feel apologetic about being a craft-oriented middled-aged woman. Heck, I could be making little annoying tchotchkes out of styrofoam and wrapping paper, but no, I'm making beautiful clothing, household items, and things of real beauty. And I realized that many people feel this same way.
Innana told me that she thought knitting was more high-brow than crochet. Of course, Innana crochets. I didn't agree, but I've looked into it. Knitting has been around for possibly more than a thousand years*** whereas crochet didn't turn up at least by people writing about it until the 19th century. Irish women did crochet (they also knitted beautifully, but there you go), and in the wake of the Potato Famine, ladies would knit and their Irish servants would crochet. Of course, you can make amazing lace with crochet. I'm trying to teach myself.
I say I don't get the dismissing certain crafts as declasse, but I do it myself with crafts I don't do. Maybe that's just human nature. But I think it's amazing, the variety of fabric one can create with one hook or two needles. And I'm looking forward to learning more variations on a theme. Increasingly complex variations.
*I got an A in the class and was told my exam in that class received the highest grade, but he didn't like that I could pay attention to what he said while knitting.
**I'll brag a bit here: I can knit more complicated and beautiful things. That was what I was working on last year. I've moved on.
***I have not researched this in detail -- I'm writing from memory of what I've read before. Those with direct links, more knowledge, whatever, please do share.
September 24, 2008
A Little Celebration
Sometime in the last few days when I wasn't online, I had my 100,000th visitor to this blog. In over three years, so that's not a lot of readers, but it's still a pretty big number to me. So yippee.
Of course, most of those readers were weirdo men (yeah, I know they're men) looking for sexy uvulas (??? Really, get a fucking clue about anatomy, or if you have a clue, take your fetish elsewhere. Thank you.), people looking for maps of the Canary Islands (why me?), people looking for illustrations of poison ivy dermatitis (Yes, the skin oozes. It's just lovely.), and a few other misguided souls. For those seeking the rantings of a divorced woman in her forties, well, you came to the right place. I hope the typos don't phase you too much. Hello and welcome.
Of course, most of those readers were weirdo men (yeah, I know they're men) looking for sexy uvulas (??? Really, get a fucking clue about anatomy, or if you have a clue, take your fetish elsewhere. Thank you.), people looking for maps of the Canary Islands (why me?), people looking for illustrations of poison ivy dermatitis (Yes, the skin oozes. It's just lovely.), and a few other misguided souls. For those seeking the rantings of a divorced woman in her forties, well, you came to the right place. I hope the typos don't phase you too much. Hello and welcome.
Need a Better Book Club
In the was of insomnia (yeah, it's back, and it's bad) and other worries which really are on the road to being resolved, I've been participating in a book club. Unfortunately, it really isn't that good a book club. The books selected range from incomprehensible Eastern European translations to mass-market books. I like Barbara Kingsolver's books to read to relax (LOS gives them to me, and I feel the need to show appreciation), but I would never pick one to discuss. Obviously, I'm being too picky and dismissing other people's choices. But the club has the feel of two fighting groups: one, refugees from Oprah's book club -- nice people who like reading, but aren't literary, and the other, would be authors who mistake incomprehensibility and denseness for literary worth.
Again, writing anonymously makes this hard. I don't want the club to be recognizable, so I don't want to list individual titles. The last two books I liked were, surprisingly enough (for me), a Faulker book picked by someone in the Oprah group (also surprising, in a good way) who said: "You know, I'm forty years old and I've never read any of his stuff. So you guys have to help me." That was over a year ago. There's only been one Latin American author picked, no British authors picked, nothing written before the last century, and a ton of last ten-years worth of (1) best sellers, and (2) weird East European stuff.
I'm sure then last decade in East European literature has produced many fine works. It's been a time of turmoil and change, and that normally leads to good writing. However, most of the books picked are introspective and self-contained in the John Updike/John Cheever mode. I've never liked those authors, despite acknowledging that they are very good writers. They just don't write stuff that speaks to me, which probably says more about my limitations than theirs.
But that's the rub: a book club needs to incorporate a common sensibility and that sensibility has to feel welcoming to the members. So even though this book club is convenient, I clearly need to get myself another book club. Even as I write that, I think, "When do I have free time for a book club?" It's a mystery.
Again, writing anonymously makes this hard. I don't want the club to be recognizable, so I don't want to list individual titles. The last two books I liked were, surprisingly enough (for me), a Faulker book picked by someone in the Oprah group (also surprising, in a good way) who said: "You know, I'm forty years old and I've never read any of his stuff. So you guys have to help me." That was over a year ago. There's only been one Latin American author picked, no British authors picked, nothing written before the last century, and a ton of last ten-years worth of (1) best sellers, and (2) weird East European stuff.
I'm sure then last decade in East European literature has produced many fine works. It's been a time of turmoil and change, and that normally leads to good writing. However, most of the books picked are introspective and self-contained in the John Updike/John Cheever mode. I've never liked those authors, despite acknowledging that they are very good writers. They just don't write stuff that speaks to me, which probably says more about my limitations than theirs.
But that's the rub: a book club needs to incorporate a common sensibility and that sensibility has to feel welcoming to the members. So even though this book club is convenient, I clearly need to get myself another book club. Even as I write that, I think, "When do I have free time for a book club?" It's a mystery.
September 21, 2008
Sibling Rivalry of the Worst Sort
Today was a day when a parent (me) wishes she had only children. Both of them (I could never choose, they're so great, but . . . ), but not together.
DestructoGirl really didn't like me watching TigerGrrl's karate class. So she needed to keep running out of the room . . . toward a fairly busy parking lot. I may be slow and chubby and old, but I can tackle a three-year old and keep her immobile. Since everyone around the karate center was a parent, no-one thought a three-year old screaming: "No! Stop hurting me! Mama! No!" was actually being abused or anything. I saw the glint of "Hee! Not my kid! Good luck with that, lady" on several faces of bystanders aware that they had dodged that tantrum bullet for now.
Then, hiking on the W&OD trail (out where there is a horse trail and lots of nature to watch), each girl in turn objected to favored treatment of the other. Favored treatment consisting of tying DestructoGirl's shoe, reattaching TigerGrrl's hairclip so her hair didn't get too messy* and other signs of clear parental preference. So each girl, in turn, decided she was too tired to walk. Of course, that put paid to their stated desires to go to the pool at the Y after going to the library -- if they were too tired to let me get my two-mile walk in, they were certainly too tired to get banned from life from the pool for doing innappropriate cannonballs into the water or something like that.
Then, at the library, which we were visiting for the first time in a while** with strict limits on non-books media imposed by me. Of course, I was tired and cranky by then and wasn't paying close attention. So TigerGrrl was infuriated to discover that DestructoGirl had somehow managed to sneak two videos and two DVDS into the check-out pile, when our "strict" new limit was supposed to be two non-book items per kid. And Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory wasn't on the shelf at the closest library, and that was the movie TG really wanted. So given DG's stealth video and DVD acquisition policy and techniqe, I decided we could go to the other nearby library which listed Willy Wonka as being available. DG thought that was way too favorable treatment of TG, and pitched a fit. Then, at the second library, it turned out that this was the Gene Wilder movie, not the Johnny Depp movie, and TG prefers Johnny Depp.*** So the trip was in vain. Worse than in vain, because TG then checked out The Country Bears which is a truly dreadful movie. Just godawful. And for the next three weeks, it's going to be watched a lot in my household since, how to say this politely, like most children, TG and DG have distressingly low standards for movie amusement.
Then, back home, making pasta carbonara, TG got upset because I let DG break the eggs, DG got upset because TG got to cut and cook the bacon and onion, and both girls are lucky, at this early age, to have survived the day unmaimed. I am a heroine of self-restraint.
Of course, I'm also a sucker. TG went to sleep listening to a CD of The Miserable Mill, book four of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events (She loves these books, and is reading them again and again to herself; but no, that's not enough, she has to listen to them on tape, on CD, on whatever medium she can get them from the library in. I take comfort that we've moved on from The Adventures of Captain Underpants: An Epic Novel+ and it's successors, such as Captain Underpants and the Invasion of the Incredibly Naughty Cafeteria Ladies from Outer Space.) and then declared that she was scared Count Olaf would come into her room. I reassured her that he was after the Baudelaire orphans' fortune, and that she was neither an orphan nor an heiress, so she would not be afflicted with a Count Olaf of her own. That didn't work.
TG then brought out the big guns: she said "Why don't you stay with me? I'll feel safe then. You make everything not scary." So she's sleeping in my room, snoring, and here I am at almost 2 a.m., sleepless (I would have been anyway), wishing that both my wonderful girls were only children of mine, which I am aware is a paradoxical thought.
All and all it was a good and exhausting day. Nonetheless, after the speech tomorrow, I'm sure having a cup of coffee with the grownups before liberating my offspring from Sunday school where they'll learn about the creation story we call evolution. Shortly thereafter, Innana will arrive and those girls will toe the line or walk home from wheresoever we might go on our Sunday outing (weather's good, so something rural, with animals, sounds good). Of course, they so aren't worried about that and won't be worrying about it tomorrow because they know me, and know I'm a sucker for them. They've got my number.
*TigerGrrl is my kid, which means she is not overly concerned with her physical appearance as long as she's comfy and nothing is pink and she has Pigpen like tendencies at times: her hair is not messy only when very recently braided.
**Lots of overdue fines and two missing items gave me a $30 library bill which I stalled on paying for a while -- we have hundreds of books in the house, so it's not like the girls will lack for reading material. But I paid up, and we're back in the book and video borrowing business.
***I love me some Gene Wilder, but I've got to back TG up on this one: Johnny Depp, while never wholly convincing me of his unfettered heterosexuality or anything, is the one I'd prefer to watch. However, I think regarding the particular movie, the Gene Wilder version is better.
+Dav Pilkey's definition of "epic" and yours (if you are sane and educated) may differ ever so slightly.
DestructoGirl really didn't like me watching TigerGrrl's karate class. So she needed to keep running out of the room . . . toward a fairly busy parking lot. I may be slow and chubby and old, but I can tackle a three-year old and keep her immobile. Since everyone around the karate center was a parent, no-one thought a three-year old screaming: "No! Stop hurting me! Mama! No!" was actually being abused or anything. I saw the glint of "Hee! Not my kid! Good luck with that, lady" on several faces of bystanders aware that they had dodged that tantrum bullet for now.
Then, hiking on the W&OD trail (out where there is a horse trail and lots of nature to watch), each girl in turn objected to favored treatment of the other. Favored treatment consisting of tying DestructoGirl's shoe, reattaching TigerGrrl's hairclip so her hair didn't get too messy* and other signs of clear parental preference. So each girl, in turn, decided she was too tired to walk. Of course, that put paid to their stated desires to go to the pool at the Y after going to the library -- if they were too tired to let me get my two-mile walk in, they were certainly too tired to get banned from life from the pool for doing innappropriate cannonballs into the water or something like that.
Then, at the library, which we were visiting for the first time in a while** with strict limits on non-books media imposed by me. Of course, I was tired and cranky by then and wasn't paying close attention. So TigerGrrl was infuriated to discover that DestructoGirl had somehow managed to sneak two videos and two DVDS into the check-out pile, when our "strict" new limit was supposed to be two non-book items per kid. And Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory wasn't on the shelf at the closest library, and that was the movie TG really wanted. So given DG's stealth video and DVD acquisition policy and techniqe, I decided we could go to the other nearby library which listed Willy Wonka as being available. DG thought that was way too favorable treatment of TG, and pitched a fit. Then, at the second library, it turned out that this was the Gene Wilder movie, not the Johnny Depp movie, and TG prefers Johnny Depp.*** So the trip was in vain. Worse than in vain, because TG then checked out The Country Bears which is a truly dreadful movie. Just godawful. And for the next three weeks, it's going to be watched a lot in my household since, how to say this politely, like most children, TG and DG have distressingly low standards for movie amusement.
Then, back home, making pasta carbonara, TG got upset because I let DG break the eggs, DG got upset because TG got to cut and cook the bacon and onion, and both girls are lucky, at this early age, to have survived the day unmaimed. I am a heroine of self-restraint.
Of course, I'm also a sucker. TG went to sleep listening to a CD of The Miserable Mill, book four of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events (She loves these books, and is reading them again and again to herself; but no, that's not enough, she has to listen to them on tape, on CD, on whatever medium she can get them from the library in. I take comfort that we've moved on from The Adventures of Captain Underpants: An Epic Novel+ and it's successors, such as Captain Underpants and the Invasion of the Incredibly Naughty Cafeteria Ladies from Outer Space.) and then declared that she was scared Count Olaf would come into her room. I reassured her that he was after the Baudelaire orphans' fortune, and that she was neither an orphan nor an heiress, so she would not be afflicted with a Count Olaf of her own. That didn't work.
TG then brought out the big guns: she said "Why don't you stay with me? I'll feel safe then. You make everything not scary." So she's sleeping in my room, snoring, and here I am at almost 2 a.m., sleepless (I would have been anyway), wishing that both my wonderful girls were only children of mine, which I am aware is a paradoxical thought.
All and all it was a good and exhausting day. Nonetheless, after the speech tomorrow, I'm sure having a cup of coffee with the grownups before liberating my offspring from Sunday school where they'll learn about the creation story we call evolution. Shortly thereafter, Innana will arrive and those girls will toe the line or walk home from wheresoever we might go on our Sunday outing (weather's good, so something rural, with animals, sounds good). Of course, they so aren't worried about that and won't be worrying about it tomorrow because they know me, and know I'm a sucker for them. They've got my number.
*TigerGrrl is my kid, which means she is not overly concerned with her physical appearance as long as she's comfy and nothing is pink and she has Pigpen like tendencies at times: her hair is not messy only when very recently braided.
**Lots of overdue fines and two missing items gave me a $30 library bill which I stalled on paying for a while -- we have hundreds of books in the house, so it's not like the girls will lack for reading material. But I paid up, and we're back in the book and video borrowing business.
***I love me some Gene Wilder, but I've got to back TG up on this one: Johnny Depp, while never wholly convincing me of his unfettered heterosexuality or anything, is the one I'd prefer to watch. However, I think regarding the particular movie, the Gene Wilder version is better.
+Dav Pilkey's definition of "epic" and yours (if you are sane and educated) may differ ever so slightly.
September 19, 2008
More Blogging Crap: To Readers
I "know" most of my regular readers at some level (I don't have many). However, Site Meter and Stat Counter show the searches people take to come here, and some leave me absolutely befuddled. That's not news. I'm often befuddled. Also, lots of men search blogs looking for sex. No sex here. I may write about sex a little bit, but not explicitly, so good luck elsewhere.
What's got me truly flummoxed is the "sexy uvula" searchers. Lots of 'em. Wha? First off: I have no uvula. I got it sliced and diced a while ago. Second, the uvula is practically an internal organ. Are there people searching for "sexy pancreas" or "sexy gall bladder"?
Human sexuality is a mystery, and I realize there's a lot of variety out there, but someone, (Dr. John? Benny? Someone with a knowledge of psychiatric oddities?) please tell me, how could someone possible get fixated on a "sexy uvula"? And what is a sexy uvula? Thank you.
What's got me truly flummoxed is the "sexy uvula" searchers. Lots of 'em. Wha? First off: I have no uvula. I got it sliced and diced a while ago. Second, the uvula is practically an internal organ. Are there people searching for "sexy pancreas" or "sexy gall bladder"?
Human sexuality is a mystery, and I realize there's a lot of variety out there, but someone, (Dr. John? Benny? Someone with a knowledge of psychiatric oddities?) please tell me, how could someone possible get fixated on a "sexy uvula"? And what is a sexy uvula? Thank you.
September 17, 2008
Posture and Premonition
Posture
Tonight, on the Metro, I sat and knitted and watched people, particularly a young man who seemed to be afflicted with some sort of neck disorder. His neck was at a right angle to his shoulders: he faced the carpeted floor throughout the ride. I tried to imagine physical disorders which would require one to hold one's head and neck at such an angle. It looked so uncomfortable it was almost inconceivable that the posture should be voluntary.
Of course, as I stood to exit the train, the young man lifted his head and looked at me. So what was it? An affliction requiring one to stare at unattractive carpeting until distracted by a middle-aged non-cupcake? Extreme shyness? Something else? He stood like that for 25 minutes, which couldn't have been anything other than painful.
I've created a story for this poor schmoo, but really, it's anyone's guess.
Premonition
Actually, it's not a premonition. It's more like history at this point. But is there anyone in this country, after hearing the news of Sallie Mae and Freddie Mac and Merrill Lynch and Lehman Bros. and AIG and the foreclosure rate and the rising tide of bankruptcy filings despite the Bankruptcy Reform Act which was supposed to stop all that who thinks that the U.S. (and therefore the world) isn't in the process of a major economic meltdown? Is there anyone who still uses credit cards insouciantly? Who thinks there really is a safety net? If you're out there, let me know why you think that.
I, of course, think you're crazy. There's a major retrenchment going on. Instead of borrowing for what you want, we're all going to have to, as poor people have done since time immemorial, do without if we don't have the cash to pay. And no, your house isn't always going to increase in value. Neither is your 401(k) plan account.
Tonight, on the Metro, I sat and knitted and watched people, particularly a young man who seemed to be afflicted with some sort of neck disorder. His neck was at a right angle to his shoulders: he faced the carpeted floor throughout the ride. I tried to imagine physical disorders which would require one to hold one's head and neck at such an angle. It looked so uncomfortable it was almost inconceivable that the posture should be voluntary.
Of course, as I stood to exit the train, the young man lifted his head and looked at me. So what was it? An affliction requiring one to stare at unattractive carpeting until distracted by a middle-aged non-cupcake? Extreme shyness? Something else? He stood like that for 25 minutes, which couldn't have been anything other than painful.
I've created a story for this poor schmoo, but really, it's anyone's guess.
Premonition
Actually, it's not a premonition. It's more like history at this point. But is there anyone in this country, after hearing the news of Sallie Mae and Freddie Mac and Merrill Lynch and Lehman Bros. and AIG and the foreclosure rate and the rising tide of bankruptcy filings despite the Bankruptcy Reform Act which was supposed to stop all that who thinks that the U.S. (and therefore the world) isn't in the process of a major economic meltdown? Is there anyone who still uses credit cards insouciantly? Who thinks there really is a safety net? If you're out there, let me know why you think that.
I, of course, think you're crazy. There's a major retrenchment going on. Instead of borrowing for what you want, we're all going to have to, as poor people have done since time immemorial, do without if we don't have the cash to pay. And no, your house isn't always going to increase in value. Neither is your 401(k) plan account.
September 15, 2008
Anonymous Incoherence
Basically, another annoying post about blogging. Or, to be specific about it, anonymous blogging. Back in the dark time of the pre-divorce and the divorce, I wrote rather openly about my personal life operating under the pretty accurate assumption that an unhappily married woman in her forties in the greater metropolitan area was simply too common (in many ways) to be identifiable. Similarly, that same woman getting divorced? Not news, not identifiable. Heck, divorce is so common that the phrase "starter marriage" is not uncommon in the least.
Now, however, I can't really write much about my life without feeling like I'm placing a sign over my head. I don't generally write about work, but my work life provides much of the experiences I would write about if I could do so anonymously. My commute provided endless fodder for writing for a while, but of late, everyone has been so egregiously polite and self-contained, I almost want to smack them to get a reaction.
I certainly don't want TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl to be identifiable through this blog, not because I think they'd care (if it isn't shiny, doesn't crash, doesn't go fast, and doesn't enable one to make loud music, it's not much good to them -- thus I am quite clear -- this blog is meaningless to them) now, but it's not now, it's the future then that concerns me. I certainly don't want to add to adolescent angst by maternal overexposure.
Right now, I'm facing a series of hurdles that I really can't describe without fairly clearly identifying myself: professional, financial, parental, and artistic. Nothing serious, and nothing I won't get through, but I'm immensely frustrated by my inability to write about any of these events.
However, the gist is this: I'm embarked on a (1) let's prepare for some career advancement once DestructoGirl is in school full time, (2) let's get rid of the last lingering financial disasters looming from the days when PdeFF handled the family finances, (3) let's get some medical annoyances* wrapped up, aside from the not-so-minor impending menopause which is going to make me a joy to be around as well as a fan of air conditioning at the refrigerator-type setting, (4) let's prepare to deal with aging parents and remaining grandparent (that's just lucky), (5) let's get the creative juices -- writing, knitting, playing the guitar, and other fun activities -- up to speed and possibly making some money, and (6) other schemes to get out of the post-divorce rut and back into a bit more of a fast lane, except for dating-wise, which is an activity, hitherto fun, in which I have lost all interest.
But that's as much detail as I can put out there. And without specifics, it's pretty boring, incoherent, and not very informative. My apologies.
*No more than that -- the biopsy came back negative, and no further uvula** or gynecological surgery is required
**No uvula surgery is required because the uvula is gone, gone, gone (yippee) and therefore I have no further uvula problems. So next time I get a bad headache, I'm moving for decapitation.
Now, however, I can't really write much about my life without feeling like I'm placing a sign over my head. I don't generally write about work, but my work life provides much of the experiences I would write about if I could do so anonymously. My commute provided endless fodder for writing for a while, but of late, everyone has been so egregiously polite and self-contained, I almost want to smack them to get a reaction.
I certainly don't want TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl to be identifiable through this blog, not because I think they'd care (if it isn't shiny, doesn't crash, doesn't go fast, and doesn't enable one to make loud music, it's not much good to them -- thus I am quite clear -- this blog is meaningless to them) now, but it's not now, it's the future then that concerns me. I certainly don't want to add to adolescent angst by maternal overexposure.
Right now, I'm facing a series of hurdles that I really can't describe without fairly clearly identifying myself: professional, financial, parental, and artistic. Nothing serious, and nothing I won't get through, but I'm immensely frustrated by my inability to write about any of these events.
However, the gist is this: I'm embarked on a (1) let's prepare for some career advancement once DestructoGirl is in school full time, (2) let's get rid of the last lingering financial disasters looming from the days when PdeFF handled the family finances, (3) let's get some medical annoyances* wrapped up, aside from the not-so-minor impending menopause which is going to make me a joy to be around as well as a fan of air conditioning at the refrigerator-type setting, (4) let's prepare to deal with aging parents and remaining grandparent (that's just lucky), (5) let's get the creative juices -- writing, knitting, playing the guitar, and other fun activities -- up to speed and possibly making some money, and (6) other schemes to get out of the post-divorce rut and back into a bit more of a fast lane, except for dating-wise, which is an activity, hitherto fun, in which I have lost all interest.
But that's as much detail as I can put out there. And without specifics, it's pretty boring, incoherent, and not very informative. My apologies.
*No more than that -- the biopsy came back negative, and no further uvula** or gynecological surgery is required
**No uvula surgery is required because the uvula is gone, gone, gone (yippee) and therefore I have no further uvula problems. So next time I get a bad headache, I'm moving for decapitation.
September 13, 2008
Quiet Weekend
And I need a quiet weekend, so this is good. With small children, one gets so tired. Last weekend was a rainy indoor Saturday and I ended up exhausted. Fortunately, Innana rescued me: we took the girls to Frederick on Sunday, which was sunny, and walked around, especially along the canal. The highlight of the day in Frederick was the "Silly Stuff for Silly People" store, with us staying on the first (family friendly) store.
Of course, even though it's my weekend "off", I took TigerGrrl to a favorite activity last night, and I'm taking the girls to Sunday school tomorrow. But I still had time for a big stock up on non-perishables at Costco -- toilet paper, paper towels, pasta, Nissin chicken-ramen noodle soup packets, brown sugar, trash bags, laundry soap -- and a few perishables -- brocolli, milk, hamburger, chicken. I also got dishes and laundry done and did a little cleaning, before I collapsed in the patio chair, wine glass firmly esconced in my hand, and set about observing the acitivities of my neighbors. Absolutely nothing happening there, either. I've played some piano, cello,8 and guitar, and have been doing some good knitting.**
Tomorrow, Innana, SNV and I will get together.
FoilMormor is doing well. She's got a good support network, and is quite straightforward about her needs. No guilt tripping. I've been ordered to visit for Christmas,*** and NSLOS will be there as well. I have to check and find out about Thanksgiving. I don't think we can travel, but she can visit here. (Kira, when you're ready to visit here, you and family, there's room -- it'll be cozy and noisy, but cozy and noisy can be fun.)
So life is settling back in. A man in his eighties dying isn't a national tragedy, but it is a tragedy for those who love him. It was very clear at the memorial service that the Second Mate was well respected and loved. FoilMormor loved him, the girls loved him, I loved him, and apparently, everyone else loved him. So it's not a hole that's going to be filled quickly or even ever. But still, life is going on, and FoilMormor isn't falling apart.
One "good"+ thing about a lengthy, but not-too-painful illness that leaves someone in control of his faculties is that the loved ones left behind have time to prepare, to ready themselves and to make plans. Also, by the time death arrives, you know it's time. When I saw the Second Mate in July, he was cadaverously thin. Still in good humor, but easily exhausted, easily bruised, and clearly dying. So the news in August, even though in the end it happened quickly, that he was going into hospice and then dead wasn't a horrible shock. It was sad, but it was totally expected and actually a bit of a relief in that I knew how tired and stressed FoilMormor was and how ill the Second Mate had been.
So tomorrow, I will enjoy a good day with friends I have known over half my life, and think about all the people I love in this world, now and in the past: my Mormor, my Grampa, my Morfar, Kaori, the Second Mate, TigerGrrl, DestructoGirl, NiQ, DOL, FoilMormor, Innana, LOS, NSLOS, my nephews, my brother-in-law, Francesca, Francesca's Mom, Aunt Elsebet, Cousin Roland, Elsebet Jr., Nuclear Grammy, Big Grampa, Big Bob, the Professor, Uber, SNV, Ex-Marine Fred, Tony, Cousin Helen, Lt. Col. Katie, Lourdes, and too many others to list here (list in head, I promise, but this paragraph will become very, very long).
While right now life just seems like a long slog through a field of mud filled with barbed wire over which I am required to crawl, when I stop to reflect, I realize I'm really lucky. I have people I truly love. I have been loved and am loved. I have things I love to do. I do some good in the world.++ I may shrink with age like most women, but for the next ten to fifteen years, I'll still be taller than most people I meet. I can play music. My daughters will learn music as well. I can make beautiful things with my hands. I live in a pretty neat, if expensive, urban area. I have a job that is reasonably fulfilling and satisfying without sucking the life right out of me. My girls a healthy, happy, and on the way toward ruling the world. What else could I want?
Well, more time with those I've loved and lost (Happens to all relationsips. Really. They all end one way or another), but I think that's the entry cost -- you have to pay the price of losing those you love if you are going to feel anything at all. To feel or not to feel? Well, d'oh. I can't wait for the girls to get home, so I can hug the living bejeezus out of them (what DestructoGirl calls "a strong hug").
*Calling what I do on the cello "playing" is a bit generous, but I like the whole sensation and most of the sounds I produce. Right now, I'm working on a stirring rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star".
**This year, broke or not, I'm distributing Christmas presents. I do hope there is a worldwide need for homemade doilies.
***The e-tickets arriving in my in-box was a hint I can figure out.
+Not "good", really, but I hope you know what I mean -- it's bad, but it helps you deal with the whole thing.
++Not as much as I'd like to do, but you take what you can get.
Of course, even though it's my weekend "off", I took TigerGrrl to a favorite activity last night, and I'm taking the girls to Sunday school tomorrow. But I still had time for a big stock up on non-perishables at Costco -- toilet paper, paper towels, pasta, Nissin chicken-ramen noodle soup packets, brown sugar, trash bags, laundry soap -- and a few perishables -- brocolli, milk, hamburger, chicken. I also got dishes and laundry done and did a little cleaning, before I collapsed in the patio chair, wine glass firmly esconced in my hand, and set about observing the acitivities of my neighbors. Absolutely nothing happening there, either. I've played some piano, cello,8 and guitar, and have been doing some good knitting.**
Tomorrow, Innana, SNV and I will get together.
FoilMormor is doing well. She's got a good support network, and is quite straightforward about her needs. No guilt tripping. I've been ordered to visit for Christmas,*** and NSLOS will be there as well. I have to check and find out about Thanksgiving. I don't think we can travel, but she can visit here. (Kira, when you're ready to visit here, you and family, there's room -- it'll be cozy and noisy, but cozy and noisy can be fun.)
So life is settling back in. A man in his eighties dying isn't a national tragedy, but it is a tragedy for those who love him. It was very clear at the memorial service that the Second Mate was well respected and loved. FoilMormor loved him, the girls loved him, I loved him, and apparently, everyone else loved him. So it's not a hole that's going to be filled quickly or even ever. But still, life is going on, and FoilMormor isn't falling apart.
One "good"+ thing about a lengthy, but not-too-painful illness that leaves someone in control of his faculties is that the loved ones left behind have time to prepare, to ready themselves and to make plans. Also, by the time death arrives, you know it's time. When I saw the Second Mate in July, he was cadaverously thin. Still in good humor, but easily exhausted, easily bruised, and clearly dying. So the news in August, even though in the end it happened quickly, that he was going into hospice and then dead wasn't a horrible shock. It was sad, but it was totally expected and actually a bit of a relief in that I knew how tired and stressed FoilMormor was and how ill the Second Mate had been.
So tomorrow, I will enjoy a good day with friends I have known over half my life, and think about all the people I love in this world, now and in the past: my Mormor, my Grampa, my Morfar, Kaori, the Second Mate, TigerGrrl, DestructoGirl, NiQ, DOL, FoilMormor, Innana, LOS, NSLOS, my nephews, my brother-in-law, Francesca, Francesca's Mom, Aunt Elsebet, Cousin Roland, Elsebet Jr., Nuclear Grammy, Big Grampa, Big Bob, the Professor, Uber, SNV, Ex-Marine Fred, Tony, Cousin Helen, Lt. Col. Katie, Lourdes, and too many others to list here (list in head, I promise, but this paragraph will become very, very long).
While right now life just seems like a long slog through a field of mud filled with barbed wire over which I am required to crawl, when I stop to reflect, I realize I'm really lucky. I have people I truly love. I have been loved and am loved. I have things I love to do. I do some good in the world.++ I may shrink with age like most women, but for the next ten to fifteen years, I'll still be taller than most people I meet. I can play music. My daughters will learn music as well. I can make beautiful things with my hands. I live in a pretty neat, if expensive, urban area. I have a job that is reasonably fulfilling and satisfying without sucking the life right out of me. My girls a healthy, happy, and on the way toward ruling the world. What else could I want?
Well, more time with those I've loved and lost (Happens to all relationsips. Really. They all end one way or another), but I think that's the entry cost -- you have to pay the price of losing those you love if you are going to feel anything at all. To feel or not to feel? Well, d'oh. I can't wait for the girls to get home, so I can hug the living bejeezus out of them (what DestructoGirl calls "a strong hug").
*Calling what I do on the cello "playing" is a bit generous, but I like the whole sensation and most of the sounds I produce. Right now, I'm working on a stirring rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star".
**This year, broke or not, I'm distributing Christmas presents. I do hope there is a worldwide need for homemade doilies.
***The e-tickets arriving in my in-box was a hint I can figure out.
+Not "good", really, but I hope you know what I mean -- it's bad, but it helps you deal with the whole thing.
++Not as much as I'd like to do, but you take what you can get.
September 11, 2008
Cello
I've been playing scales on the cello. Don't ask me how I got a cello. I can't explain. But I'm learning a bit of it, just using a Suziki (three-year old's) course book and a "starter" cello that would cost about $1,000 to buy (I didn't buy, believe me). How anyone starts on cello who doesn't have a cello drop in his or her lap? It's a mystery. I'm not the next Casals -- to TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl, of course, I remain Yo Mama (I had to write that, sorry)-- but I do love the sound of the instrument. I wish I'd learned it earlier.
DC Is Not a Small Town
Everyone says that DC is a small town. Yesterday, the difference between a small town and a relatively big city was brought home to me.
I like to people watch, most of the time without any interaction. Sometimes, however, one wants to know more, to know what happened next. This was one of those times. After work, at the intersection of 18th Streets and R Street, N.W., a man lay collapsed on the sidewalk. He was surrounded by EMTs and firemen, they had a neck brace on him, and a father stood nearby hugging his young daughter (more than seven, less than twelve, from a quick glance across the street). My impression was that the father and daughter had witnessed whatever caused the need for the ambulance and emergency assistance and were helplessly standing by, wanting to know what would happen next, but powerless. The child was not crying, but was definitely distressed (she was doing the full-body-lean/press-into-the-parent that one normally sees in older children in times of real contentment, but can also be evidence of distress that can only be alleviated by a parent's physical presence).
Because the situation was under control -- the man had several emergency responders working on him -- I did not stay and linger, operating under the do unto others rule. If I were ill, mildly or gravely, on a city street, a crowd gathering would not be what I would want. I kept walking to my destination.
However, that's one of the problems with living in a big city. This won't be in the news. No-one I know will be able to tell me that the man is okay (or not, but I'm voting for okay, because that's what I want). I grew up in a relatively small town. If somebody tripped and fell and banged her head on Main Street, that evening, three phone calls would get me the information of (1) who it was, (2) her connection to me, (3) how she was doing, and (4) what I could do to help -- who might benefit from a hot meal, whether she liked flowers, whether she had kids and would need help with babysitting, if she needed a ride to the doctor's office, whatever.
Most people want to help in situations like this, like the father and daughter -- I didn't get the impression they knew the ill/injured man, just from body language, although I could be wrong. However, our help is generally limited to the phone call to 911.
I love living in a major metropolitan area with all it offers (especially the free museums). But the isolation from others, the distance from strangers, can be difficult at times. I do hope the man who fell ill or was injured at 18th & R Streets, NW yesterday evening around 6:15 is recovering somewhere.
I like to people watch, most of the time without any interaction. Sometimes, however, one wants to know more, to know what happened next. This was one of those times. After work, at the intersection of 18th Streets and R Street, N.W., a man lay collapsed on the sidewalk. He was surrounded by EMTs and firemen, they had a neck brace on him, and a father stood nearby hugging his young daughter (more than seven, less than twelve, from a quick glance across the street). My impression was that the father and daughter had witnessed whatever caused the need for the ambulance and emergency assistance and were helplessly standing by, wanting to know what would happen next, but powerless. The child was not crying, but was definitely distressed (she was doing the full-body-lean/press-into-the-parent that one normally sees in older children in times of real contentment, but can also be evidence of distress that can only be alleviated by a parent's physical presence).
Because the situation was under control -- the man had several emergency responders working on him -- I did not stay and linger, operating under the do unto others rule. If I were ill, mildly or gravely, on a city street, a crowd gathering would not be what I would want. I kept walking to my destination.
However, that's one of the problems with living in a big city. This won't be in the news. No-one I know will be able to tell me that the man is okay (or not, but I'm voting for okay, because that's what I want). I grew up in a relatively small town. If somebody tripped and fell and banged her head on Main Street, that evening, three phone calls would get me the information of (1) who it was, (2) her connection to me, (3) how she was doing, and (4) what I could do to help -- who might benefit from a hot meal, whether she liked flowers, whether she had kids and would need help with babysitting, if she needed a ride to the doctor's office, whatever.
Most people want to help in situations like this, like the father and daughter -- I didn't get the impression they knew the ill/injured man, just from body language, although I could be wrong. However, our help is generally limited to the phone call to 911.
I love living in a major metropolitan area with all it offers (especially the free museums). But the isolation from others, the distance from strangers, can be difficult at times. I do hope the man who fell ill or was injured at 18th & R Streets, NW yesterday evening around 6:15 is recovering somewhere.
September 4, 2008
Books and Pleasure
I'm not a joiner. The few associations or organizations I join, I survive by not joining committees or group activities. I volunteer to do something specific and relatively antisocial. My biggest charitable activity of late has been giving platelets every few weeks. It's the perfect charitable donation for an anti-committee person. You go in, get stuck with two needles, watch a movie, and go home. No need to listen to anyone go on about what shade of pink the napkins at the fundraiser need to be.
Many people actually find that sort of activity fun, or at least not horribly painful and awkward. Me, I'd rather get nibbled to death by ducks. So in times of stress, what relaxes me the most are good books, playing the guitar, or other activities involving solitude.
I've read the complete Harry Potter ouevre to TigerGrrl enough (two times through completely, she's reading it for the third time, with occasional bouts of Mama-lap-reading). So I started her on Howard Pyle's Otto of the Silver Hand , which she, to my pleasure, loves. Now we're reading Marguerite DeAngelis's Thee, Hannah, two books I loved as a child. Even better than reading is reading with a child snuggled up against you. Even the worst book is enjoyable with a kid on your lap. But to introduce my daughter to books my mother read to me (and with Otto of the Silver Hand, books my mother's mother read to her) is just a pleasure beyond ecstasy.
The book I'm reading for myself is They Marched Into Sunlight by David Maraniss, which so far is very good, but since it's about the Vietnam War, I'm assuming a pretty high depresso-meter factor. Maybe I should pick out something lighter for now. I have a few histories of the Battle of Stalingrad on the shelf, but those are probably a bad idea too. A friend just sent me a link to Good Reads. I've got to go check that out.
Many people actually find that sort of activity fun, or at least not horribly painful and awkward. Me, I'd rather get nibbled to death by ducks. So in times of stress, what relaxes me the most are good books, playing the guitar, or other activities involving solitude.
I've read the complete Harry Potter ouevre to TigerGrrl enough (two times through completely, she's reading it for the third time, with occasional bouts of Mama-lap-reading). So I started her on Howard Pyle's Otto of the Silver Hand , which she, to my pleasure, loves. Now we're reading Marguerite DeAngelis's Thee, Hannah, two books I loved as a child. Even better than reading is reading with a child snuggled up against you. Even the worst book is enjoyable with a kid on your lap. But to introduce my daughter to books my mother read to me (and with Otto of the Silver Hand, books my mother's mother read to her) is just a pleasure beyond ecstasy.
The book I'm reading for myself is They Marched Into Sunlight by David Maraniss, which so far is very good, but since it's about the Vietnam War, I'm assuming a pretty high depresso-meter factor. Maybe I should pick out something lighter for now. I have a few histories of the Battle of Stalingrad on the shelf, but those are probably a bad idea too. A friend just sent me a link to Good Reads. I've got to go check that out.
Um, I Meant to Do That
Having totally offended much of the DC blogging community, I will now travel to Siberia or at least Herndon to suffer in exile, except, no, I won't. I did call up Innana and ask her if I was being a pissy bitch. She said, "I can't get online now, but let's save some time. Yes, you are." Does that sound familiar? It should (if you're one of my twenty deeply disturbed regular readers).
I definitely need to use the delay switch more often. Even more frightening? A number of people seemed to think this was directed at them. I actually had some people in mind (when writing the original cranky post), but none of them recognized themselves and I had no intention of them doing so. Actually, the post that sent me off the deep end wasn't even a local post (I will not name the blog or even the region). So I've insulted people I like, and fallen on my face. How can I top this?
Edited to add: And the most hilarious and ironic thing about this whole brouhaha is that when I called the few friends who know of the existence of this blog (it's Innana and three others) to survey them (aside from calling Innana to hear that I'm a pissy bitch, which always fills me with glee), one friend said: "Well, why do bloggers care? Why do they think anyone likes what they read? It's not like anyone's paying them, is it?" At which point, I got all insulted about someone devaluing blogging. Irony is alive and well and living in my over-crowded flat, that's for goddamned sure. Because it's true: we're all writing and trying to be witty or funny or meaningful (or whatever our self-identification and purpose for writing is) and the idea that someone else just doesn't give a flying fuck seems like too much. But she didn't mean to insult me, or anyone else reading this: she just meant that we're not the New York Times or even The Cleveland Plain Dealer. We're people writing for no pay on the Internet. The phrase "Get over yourself" may even have been tossed in my direction. And even though I was mildly hurt (please, nobody else be), I have to admit: she was right.
I definitely need to use the delay switch more often. Even more frightening? A number of people seemed to think this was directed at them. I actually had some people in mind (when writing the original cranky post), but none of them recognized themselves and I had no intention of them doing so. Actually, the post that sent me off the deep end wasn't even a local post (I will not name the blog or even the region). So I've insulted people I like, and fallen on my face. How can I top this?
Edited to add: And the most hilarious and ironic thing about this whole brouhaha is that when I called the few friends who know of the existence of this blog (it's Innana and three others) to survey them (aside from calling Innana to hear that I'm a pissy bitch, which always fills me with glee), one friend said: "Well, why do bloggers care? Why do they think anyone likes what they read? It's not like anyone's paying them, is it?" At which point, I got all insulted about someone devaluing blogging. Irony is alive and well and living in my over-crowded flat, that's for goddamned sure. Because it's true: we're all writing and trying to be witty or funny or meaningful (or whatever our self-identification and purpose for writing is) and the idea that someone else just doesn't give a flying fuck seems like too much. But she didn't mean to insult me, or anyone else reading this: she just meant that we're not the New York Times or even The Cleveland Plain Dealer. We're people writing for no pay on the Internet. The phrase "Get over yourself" may even have been tossed in my direction. And even though I was mildly hurt (please, nobody else be), I have to admit: she was right.
September 3, 2008
Down to the River to Pray
Gospel music, especially old-time gospel/slave spiritual music, is something I used to avoid because I thought I would be hypocritical to sing it if I didn't believe. Anglican hymns didn't bother me, as I assumed it as a given that belief was not required. But something about gospel music -- which I love -- made it clear that belief was pretty much an instrument you had to play to sing the song correctly.
Now, I am born again into my love of this music. My church plays good music. That may be because a number of really good professional musicians (non-believers or doubters like me) and even more really good amateurs are in the congregation and in the choir. It may be the one who made us all (if that one exists and is corporreal and has ears or something like ears) likes music better than true belief and thus encourages this.* But my church plays some good gospel music, even better when you realize that many of the congregation aren't even nominally Christian.
So now I'm practising "As I Went Down to the River to Pray" (more links below, but here by the Virginia Gospel Choir** to sing and play on the guitar.*** Also, "This Little Light" (sung here by Danae Andrea Howe and others, sung here by New Sounds for Christ in Zimbabwe, sung here by the Boss -- and yeah, he still is the boss, sung here by Hazel Miller and a bunch of other people, sung here by King Louis Narcisse, and sung here by Leontyne Price) -- I've always loved that hymn/spiritual/whatever you want to call it.
I've also been browsing up the wazoo. Here's one great Mahalia Jackson song, erroneously called "Study War No More" when it should be called "Down by the Riverside", but I'll forgive the person who posted it on YouTube just for calling Ms. Jackson "The Great Mahalia Jackson", which she is (she was, but she's still great). Oh, and here's Ms. Jackson singing Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho. And here's Marian Anderson singing Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord). And the same song sung by Johnny Cash. And a choral rendition.
The only problem with this stuff is this is choral music, not accompanied by guitar music. And short of joining a Baptist church, I ain't getting a chance to sing it in harmony. Oh, wait, I'm in a church of non-believers that sings this stuff. Oh Happy Day.
Of course, I've left out Cissy Houston, Aretha Franklin, Mavis Staples and the Staples Singers and so many others. But don't worry about the direction and the artists. I'll take you there. I do love this music, which makes me believe more than anyone in any pulpit ever did.
*I doubt that, but I'm throwing it out there.
**Go here, to GodTube+ for a video. Also, on YouTube, here, also here by the Wyndham Chamber Singers, and here by the Keanettes, here by Selah. Go here, for lyrics and chords.
***Although "As I Went Down to the River to Pray" is truly best sung a capella and in harmony.
+Yes, I am as shocked as you are that I am sending people to GodTube, but it's one place where you can hear the song without violating copyright, I believe.
Now, I am born again into my love of this music. My church plays good music. That may be because a number of really good professional musicians (non-believers or doubters like me) and even more really good amateurs are in the congregation and in the choir. It may be the one who made us all (if that one exists and is corporreal and has ears or something like ears) likes music better than true belief and thus encourages this.* But my church plays some good gospel music, even better when you realize that many of the congregation aren't even nominally Christian.
So now I'm practising "As I Went Down to the River to Pray" (more links below, but here by the Virginia Gospel Choir** to sing and play on the guitar.*** Also, "This Little Light" (sung here by Danae Andrea Howe and others, sung here by New Sounds for Christ in Zimbabwe, sung here by the Boss -- and yeah, he still is the boss, sung here by Hazel Miller and a bunch of other people, sung here by King Louis Narcisse, and sung here by Leontyne Price) -- I've always loved that hymn/spiritual/whatever you want to call it.
I've also been browsing up the wazoo. Here's one great Mahalia Jackson song, erroneously called "Study War No More" when it should be called "Down by the Riverside", but I'll forgive the person who posted it on YouTube just for calling Ms. Jackson "The Great Mahalia Jackson", which she is (she was, but she's still great). Oh, and here's Ms. Jackson singing Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho. And here's Marian Anderson singing Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord). And the same song sung by Johnny Cash. And a choral rendition.
The only problem with this stuff is this is choral music, not accompanied by guitar music. And short of joining a Baptist church, I ain't getting a chance to sing it in harmony. Oh, wait, I'm in a church of non-believers that sings this stuff. Oh Happy Day.
Of course, I've left out Cissy Houston, Aretha Franklin, Mavis Staples and the Staples Singers and so many others. But don't worry about the direction and the artists. I'll take you there. I do love this music, which makes me believe more than anyone in any pulpit ever did.
*I doubt that, but I'm throwing it out there.
**Go here, to GodTube+ for a video. Also, on YouTube, here, also here by the Wyndham Chamber Singers, and here by the Keanettes, here by Selah. Go here, for lyrics and chords.
***Although "As I Went Down to the River to Pray" is truly best sung a capella and in harmony.
+Yes, I am as shocked as you are that I am sending people to GodTube, but it's one place where you can hear the song without violating copyright, I believe.
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