Crossing items off a bucket list is one of life’s pleasures, nearly as satisfying as doing them. As the items on my own personal list are accomplished, I derive a wicked glee adding to what I call my f^*k it list, activities I have either considered engaging in or have already done. To the former I say, fuggetaboutit. To the latter, nevermore.
Ski. Those clunky, heavy boots. The blinding whiteness of snow that makes it hard to orient my body in space. The prospect of my body hurtling through space.
Take a selfie. There is no good angle. None.
Paint a room. The prep work. The clean up. The storing of paint cans, brushes, rollers, trays, spattered dropcloths. The primal scream when I realize it’s not the right color.
Tell a hairdresser to be creative.
Drive cross-country. The tedium, relieved occasionally by a glimpse of beautiful scenery or an amusing...
In his poem, “The Tyger,” William Blake writes: “What immortal hand or eye/Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” The impact of that unexpected adjective, fearful, modifying a noun that suggests a pleasing, harmonious quality, symmetry, strikes me every time I read the poem. It informs my own contrary reaction to some of nature’s most perfect forms, not least because I agree with Francis Bacon that “There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in its proportions.”
I marvel at the structure of honeycombs, sunflowers, the undersides of mushrooms, at the extravagant beauty of a peacock feather. At the same time, however, I am filled with unease, a mild repulsion. In the case of the termite, distinguished from a flying ant by the equal size of its wings, straight antennae, and uniform body width, my aversion to its symmetry is readily understood. In the other instances mentioned, though, I have difficulty reconciling how s...
Years ago I read Alvin Toffler’s book, "Future Shock," and I am still amazed at how prophetic it was, particularly the phenomenon Toffler termed overchoice. Consider the options presented in the purchase of a light bulb. Incandescent, fluorescent, or LED? How many lumen hours? How many watts (which in the case of LED bulbs is a whole ‘nuther ball of wax)? Dimmable or not? Indoor or outdoor or both? What size and shape bulb? Presented with so many choices, I did not feel—pun intended—illuminated. Rather, my dimmed, overloaded brain entertained stocking up on candles and matches and retreating to another century.
And don’t get me started on paint colors.
Recently, I decided to paint my sunroom. The color I had in mind was salmon, a subdued, pink-orange. Or, as I described to a friend who totally got what I meant, “a not too orangey-orange.” Simple, or so I thought until I stood in front of hundreds of sample paint col...
I feel privileged and very thankful to be alive in this particular part of the world, at this particular time in history. But even the best day has its irritations, what I unoriginally refer to as First World Problems. Silly, niggling pet peeves which the French (who can describe a hangnail in existential terms) call bête noire. In fact, discussing my bugaboos in this blog, and other forms of public venting, is pretty darn irritating itself. Nevertheless, I will indulge myself in a brief list of things that really tick me off.
The stuff people leave behind: snot-filled Kleenex in shopping carts, used personal hygiene items (Q-tips being the least offensive) in restrooms, hair anywhere. GROSS!
Outdoor fixtures—lamps, flagpoles, wind chimes, barbecues—that rust. I mean, really.
While I am always fascinated by writers' accounts of their writing habits (Faulkner in his rundown shed, Proust in his cork-lined bedroom), talking about my own process bores me to tears. It’s right up there with watching paint dry. (Note to self: avoid clichés). Still, it behooves me (did I just use that odd word?) to give an account of an activity that engages so much of my time.
An essential part of my daily writing ritual is setting up my tools: a well-worn dictionary and thesaurus, extra-fine black ink pens, #2 pencils sharpened to within an inch of their lives, tablets of college-ruled white paper (no margins), folders containing the novel’s outline and notes, print copies of completed chapters, and a hand mirror. I check it periodically to be sure I haven’t disappeared, a hazard of an overactive imagination.
Longhand is the only way I can write. There’s something about the movement of my hand, the flow of ink...
If anyone were to ask me for a few words of advice or wisdom (excluding the usual Do unto others and Always wear clean underwear), I would offer this nugget:
Read as though your life depended on it—because it does.
I was a precocious reader. Began reading at four, zipped through all the Nancy Drew mystery series titles by eight, began a lifelong engagement with the novels of Charles Dickens (every last one of them) at eleven. It is unthinkable for me not to have a book (or more) on my nightstand or in my handbag. Reading fills every minute of waiting, whether to board a flight, see the dentist, get through a checkout line. I will never understand or accept the excuse “I don’t have time to read.” I say, TURN OFF THE COMPUTER! AND THE PHONE! AND THE TELEVISION!
When you read you’re not alone. When you read your mind fills with ideas and images outside of your narrow existence. When you read you empathize...
Well, for starters, schmaltzy movies like The Sound of Music in which Julie Andrews frolics in her nightgown, singing about schnitzel with noodles, while all the little Von Trapps gaze in adoration. And darn if she doesn’t win their hearts! And the Captain’s too!
The kids coming home for a visit.
The kids coming home for a visit without dirty laundry.
Every single sunlit, smoky-aired, colorful, majestic, melancholy day of autumn.
Cold pools. Hot showers.
Forests. Even the word forest.
Finding something I thought was lost. Even if it wasn’t something I missed or liked, its unexpected reappearance in itself is the delight. Oh, there you are!
How before some storms, rain or snow, the sky takes on an eerie glow and a hush falls over everything.
The first cup of coffee in the morning. Suddenly everything becomes clear....
What is it about three-word sentences that makes them so effective at communicating? There’s a forceful rhythm to them, for one thing, making each word pack a punch. And summing up thoughts and sentiments so concisely implies confidence and certainty. Twitter restricts writers to 280 characters, but I think limiting thoughts to three sentences is more challenging and fun.
For obvious reasons," I love you" and "You complete me" have universal, timeless appeal. (As for personal appeal, nothing beats "Block this caller").
Interpretations of three-word sentences vary, depending on mood, disposition, life experience. "Back to school" may elicit "Oh, happy day" from a parent or "Oh, please no" from a student.
Some are unintentionally suggestive like "Slippery when wet" and "Fill ‘er up."
From snarky, "Suck on this," to Terminator nasty, "Fuck you, asshole" as Schwarzenegger so fam...
In my previous blog I described my waning wanderlust. I neglected to mention, however, that one of the reasons I am less curious about other countries is because New York City is, to me, quite a few countries in itself. Frequent visits there satisfy my need to mingle with a diverse population, enjoy multinational cuisines, and explore rich cultural offerings. The saying about The Big Apple goes, “if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.” I’d like to add, using another meaning of the word make, if you can make it there, you won’t need to go anywhere else.
There’s nothing quite like being in a city of eight million people, none of whom know me, want to talk to me, or even notice me. This anonymity is one of NYC’s greatest pleasures. Everyone is going about their business—and it doesn’t matter how outlandish that business is or how they dress doing it. Outfits range from Hugo Boss suits to saris to marathon-ready to just-...
When did my wanderlust turn into wander-meh? I have travelled through Europe by train, days of no sleep, no showers, no food—but a lifetime of memories of French lavender fields, the Swiss Alps, the family that boarded in Florence with their cages of squawking poultry. I lugged my eight-months-pregnant belly all over Seattle and Vancouver for the chance to see one of the most spectacular corners of the world. Crisscrossing the United States by car a few times, an adventure in regional dialects and cuisines, was worth every stretch of boring, billboarded highway. Mexico? Montreal? Been there, done that.
My journey (no other word will do since it also suggests an emotional passage) to Australia fulfilled a lifelong dream to see the place that had captured my imagination since childhood. Who can resist a country “sung” into creation by its ancestors as they traversed the landscape, laying down “songlines”?