proteanme

Lately for lots of reasons I find myself feeling pretty dreamy and pretty hazy and it seems to be a good place to be for processing thoughts and feelings, but not exactly lending itself to a coherent narrative for blogging. Sometimes I feel I’m just holding lots of fragments of things together in my head, and some fragments are the tip of an iceberg, and some are just jetsam maybe.

At best this is gonna be a fragmented. I was waiting to get my haircut last week and listening to these women talking about the NIU shooting. I was particularly tuned in because my one of my dearest and oldest friends teaches there and was on campus that day and in short, she is ok. These women were talking about how they thought the world had become more violent and they blaming it on video games and violence on TV and in movies, etc. They continued that way for a while, in that banal vein, with me holding my tongue, in part because I am fascinated with how people try and make sense of the fucked up shit that happens in their lives. It’s like grasp, grasp , grasp, look for someone or something to blame so we can push away to a safe distance the awful randomness of violence, the real potential that all of us are easy targets in a world that has no particular interest in our personal well beings. Plus, I was thinking more violent than what? than a horrible history of lynching, than a world war only 60 years ago that took 72 million people’s lives, than soldiers coming home these days without legs and arms, than women systematically raped and tortured in Darfur. It’s when violence hits to close to home for the comfortable mass, that everyone throws up their arms in alarm. I feel for my friend and all the faculty, students and staff at NIU and for the shooter and his family. But I’m sorry the world is not more violent.

I saw St. Vincent on Monday. It was a really good show. Kinda dreamy for me, but I was feeling kinda dreamy. Hard to describe her music, poppy, jazzy, rocky, but not hard to describe her. She rocks the mic, she rocks the guitar, and she happens to be knockout. Her single, Marry Me, made it on to my top singles for 2007 and here’s what she had to say about that track: It was a comment on all symbols of stability, which is also a comment on never really questioning commitment, really.

Barak/Hillary breakdown by senate bills. Interesting stuff. I did find most of his comments about First Women to be condescending, and, frankly not necessary for his argument. And it made me think of how ingrained misogyny is, which I can elaborate on in my comments if you wanna dialogue about it.

And what is NYT’s problem with abortion?

Listening to a cover of Neil Young’s Razor Love by the Mobius Band , and without thinking I got a quick and almost lucid (I think that’s word I wanna use here) image in my head of summer sunshine streaming through the window of any little bungalow in Bloomington and walking barefoot across the wood floor to push on the screen door and head out to the porch.

Music can evoke so much imagery and emotion for me, which I’m often grateful for because negotiating my emotional landscape is often like seeing in the dark.

I recommend you download all 6 free Valentine’s day covers. It looks like they are still there for the taking. My favorite track is the cover of Bob Dylan’s I’ll Keep it with Mine.

It is a stunning day for late winter in Portland , all blue sky and sunshine. Sure there’s a little wind, but it’s not cold and mostly not noticeable if you’re not riding into it. It’s like the city is showing us a little thigh, reminding us why we love it so.

It’s funny how disinterested I am in the Hillary/Barak throw down, except I wanna beat McCain. In corresponding with Amos I realized I’m not at all into looking to a presidential candidate for a sense of hope, although I’m moved by how many folks are inspired by Obama. If anything I find more hope in them, than in him. But I’m also aware that with McCain in the race there’s a good chance that Oregon, with it’s fierce libertarian streak, is gonna be in play. So I’m publicly committing myself to working this fall for who ever gets the nod, Clinton or Obama .

I heard Nigella Lawson talking about chocolate the other day and she said something along the lines of food is not meant to impress, it’s meant to bring pleasure. A woman after my own heart.

I had this realization last night riding home from yoga. As much we make might make plans to mark events or celebrate the milestones in our lives, ya know that trip to Europe you’ve always wanted to take or your big 40th birthday bash, much of life is about the getting from here to there, taking things out and putting them away, saying good morning and good evening to your co-workers and students, washing your clothes, wearing them, and then washing then again. And it’s best to find some way to bring meaning and joy to that minutia. The grand stuff is icing on the cake of a life that doesn’t owe us a damn thing.

I think that’s why I like being a bike commuter. It brings some meaning to getting from here to there and back. I notice things, like the way the new glass towers on the waterfront rise up like a sci-fi poster behind the old Victorians that line the streets of my yoga studio. I feel the weather and when it’s raining and everyone’s griping I get to be the badass that shows up in the grocery line, wet and splattered with some grime. And even when it kicks my ass like it did last night, I get grounded in my body, heart beating, lungs breathing, legs pumping as I move myself through space on my elegant, efficient machine.

I love riding into work in the dawn when it’s not raining.  The sky is all hazy, mixed in purple, blue, grey and black, and everything in the distance is soft and dreamy. The office and street lights have not quite yielded to the morning, so in pedaling over the river, the Willamette shimmers and looks almost romantic.  This morning I heard birds reminding me that Portland’s spring, as understated as it is to me, is starting to show itself. By the time I arrive to the big building where I work on the edge of the  industrial section in the northwest, the blanket of daybreak is nearly lifted, and I slip upstairs in relative quiet and sometimes watch sun-up’s ending.

I really love where I work, in large part because I get to do the work I love and my work is valued. But also because I have a voice here and because I can be sincere and ambitious about getting things done. Also, it feels good to work some where that has good politics.

And no one’s around to dig the sound.

I made a mixed cd for a new friend, carefully culled from end-of-year favorite lists I’ve maintained over the last 5 or 6 years. (My lists not only include stuff that was released in a given year, but also whatever I happened to be listening to a lot that year, which is why Under Pressure made the cut) The mix went through a couple iterations, but with the final tweak in place I came up with a great idea for a cover that looked pretty fucking cool and was also a personal nod to my new friend. And after the final listen when I popped the cd in its case I’m thought to myself . . . perfect. My new friend seemed genuinely happy when I handed it over.

A couple of weeks pass. I’m chatting with said friend. I inquire, “How’d you like that cd?” She pauses, her eyes look down just a little and she answers, “I think we have different taste in music.” I’m sure I must have tipped my head to the side as I thought over my response, if for no other reason than being thrown off balance by the weight of the shocked and indignant thoughts quickly amassing in my brain. Thoughts like – “What? How can that be? Maybe your taste is broken. Or maybe it’s just neglected. Maybe your taste needs a work out, like a lazy fat guy who doesn’t want to put down and pizza and turn off the xbox. Yeah, maybe my taste should be your taste’s trainer, your taste’s sifu, because I have phenomenal taste in music. So much so that I should instruct you in what you should be listening to. C’mon my taste is so cool it should kick your taste in the fucking ass. Right, ass. . .right, don’t be an asshole here. Liz, you’re on the verge of being an obnoxious, pretentious asshole. Good lord, she can listen to whatever she wants, who cares?” You might be happy to know, I ended up saying something, like “What gracious reply”. We’d been talking about being gracious earlier.