Trek on Home

Getting the Star Trek movie on disc was the swiftest over-ten-dollar purchase I've made. I just passed by and knocked it into my basket.

Of course, once Jeff and I got home, we popped it in the player and watched it ravenously while we had our dinner. I was jazzed to see that the movie is well-orchestrated enough that it loses none of its impact on the small screen; my eyes got misty in the same places, none of the close-up intamacies are lost, and the music score ties it all together.

Also of course, being the über geek that I am, getting Trek home also means that I get to nitpick. I don't nitpick like many of the Trekkies/Trekkers I've known; I have to cut the crew much slack, because they are writers rather than physics majors, and plus they brought Trek back into the modern day and made it feel relevant again. I did voice mild dissent at some of the obviously bad physics ("Singularities don't work that way!") and a few of the moments where Trek became more popcorn flick than sci-fi. However, even these little moments give it charm, and I am endeared forever to the film.

(Thank you, J.J. Abrams and company!)

I kept buzzing with amazement at how excellent Zachary Quinto performs the Spock character. Indeed, the actor has made me wish for the first time in seven years that I had television, so I could watch him on Heroes.

Funny moments they reveal on the commentary: My sister Beth and I giggled in the theatre when Kirk and Spock stand together on the Jellyfish. As Spock tries to give Kirk a message for Uhura in case comething happens to him, Kirk interrupts with a very Shatneresque "Spahhhck!" It turns out that this was intentional, a nod to the Shat himself as the originator of the Kirk role. Chris Pine also echoes this later as he enters the bridge in the captain shirt for the first time and tosses off a Shatneresque "Bones!" Clever, clever.

Micro Fiction

Here is a sample of a micro fic I wrote for my MAF: Short Story class. It's semi-autobiographical, semi-fictional.

Votives

My little sister and I were allotted to my father twice a month after the divorce. “Every other weekend,” my father explained, pouring scotch into a smoky tumbler. I tripped after him, puppyish, eyes on the glittering bit of summer-colored alcohol in his hand. The gold ring he wore over the white furrow where the wedding band used to be contained a perfect tiger’s eye. It winked amber at me.

Papa let us stay up until midnight at his house, his contingency-plan furniture too small in the big rooms. By seven-thirty he was asleep next to Karin, who wadded herself against one shoulder of the couch. A second tumbler lounged in his long fingers, the first forgotten in the laundry room at half six. I plucked the glass out of his hand and set it in front of the fire with its twin. They glowed like the votives at Christmas Mass.

Later, when I was seventeen, the scotch glasses were seven, a votive procession through the house. My father’s voice now lounged and leaned like the glasses he forgot, all over the room. I cut my visits short three months shy of my eighteenth birthday.

Four years later, my estranged father’s voice clotted my answering machine one summer night: “Amy, I’m tired of fuckin’ around with ya. Give me a call!” His voice was grating, in a face-down on the floorboards sort of way. I pushed delete and made myself iced tea.

Auntie!

I'm an Auntie!

Welcome, to the first baby boy in our family! Happy birthday Owen James!

Snip Snip Boom

Alrighty, heavy opinion time.

I used to have long hair, ("long, beautiful hair, shoulder length or longer, hair down to there,") which I have since kept at shoulder-length or in bob form since the spring of 2006. After my favorite teacher passed away in Israel, I decided to chop off my locks as a sort of mourning ceremony for myself, as I didn't really get to say goodbye to him.

Long, Lara Croftian hair tends to pull down my face. I enjoy the bob, being very 1920s-esque, but just want a change. I was thinking going pixie short, with a punk twist. (I also love rockabilly hair, but it's way too much upkeep, with the curling and uncurling, pinning and twisting. I'm a minimalist in hair effort.) Ergo, I wanted to ask your opinion on... this:

The lovely and talented P!nk.

Pixie cut.

I'd like to go for these kinds of cuts, only without the platnium dye and with, you know, pants. So what do you think?

Stayin' Alive

I am still alive!

This semester has kicked my rear like no other semester before; all of the times I felt I was taxed for time back at NWC seems like a patty cake party in comparison. I came to the conclusion that I need to complain less, just buckle in, and have a good time 'tween semesters.

I think I'll like it here in Laramie. There's just enough western history, access to mountains and an urban setting (Denver,) and fast roads back to the places I am from. Laramie is a happy little hub. I also like that it's about the same age as Placerville, the place I'll always call home. Powell was nice, but it being founded in 1909, it seemed like a bit of a "whipper-schnapper" town. Plus, they have historic ghost tours around Halloween time, which is just boss. The ghost tours of Placerville were usually privately run by paranormal investigators who plug their book throughout. The ghost tour here features a hay ride, bad acting, and people earnestly trying to scare you while presenting a living history lesson. I am enamored with that sort of effort!

As for my first semester at "Yoo Dub," I had a hard time at first, as the professors are very... ah... established. They are the big boys of formal education, and they know it. As on the P'ville ghost tours, I was subjected to "I'm published" many times in the first two weeks of classes. I enjoy my German class immensely, as well as my science course, (the last one I'll ever take! No!). I am neutral about my lit. course; I learn a lot from it, but with an average of 100-125 pages to read a night, I am very ready for it to be done. My short story class is excellent for analysis of said literary form, but it lacks female authors, outside Eudora Welty.

Looking forward to next semester: book arts, German 1.2, literary survey, and finite mathematics. Optimism.

Haunted Thrift

I now have a job at a local thrift store; I started only one day before my untimely breakup, so for the first week of my job I went through the numb motions of learning the register and how to stock the floor. Fortunately for me, operating a thrift store can be done as easily as walking backwards over a flat surface. Junk pours in and out, the same people come in and shop, and the store's creed can be recited by rote with ease.

After several days I started to come more to life and notice the world around me.

I've always had an interesting time with antique and secondhand stores. Sometimes, when I touch or brush an object I get a strong emotional reaction. Some people call this phenomenon psychometry and think it belongs to the "realm of the supernatural.*" I, however, think it belongs to the realm of the preternatural, meaning that "we don't have a scientific explanation for it yet, but someday we will.*" I also get feelings from just being in a place or in close proximity to the object.

At the store I feel little more than the wash of emotions and activities of the living. However, sometimes when it is quiet or there is a low volume of people in the store the building speaks to me.

Sometimes I feel an acute loss of sunlight, a missing of dusty fields and anthills, of grasses blowing in the wind. This is what I would call a first layer of impression, there from a time before Laramie itself existed. After this is an impression of clanking iron, the dusty smell of horses, and the coarse shout of men calling to one another. I don't know what first existed in that spot, but I get the idea that there was a stable or a depot nearby. Indeed, the modern-day train yard is within viewing distance of the shop.

The third layer of impression I feel is that of music, centered in the shop itself. I know the thrift store is not the first business on the location, so perhaps it was a music shop at one time. The final layer is that of the thrift store itself, again with the myriad impressions of thousands of different things coming from hundreds of different origins.

However, there is something lucid that moves throughout the store, I believe, felt not only on the sales floor, but upstairs among the maze of boxes, donations, and empty clothing racks. Several of the employees there do not feel comfortable in the store by themselves or after dark; indeed, D. and J.2 have both said that they didn't feel alone when they closed for the night or opened in the morning. I myself feel that something is either watching or listening to me when I walk upstairs or back into the electronics and books area. Nothing bad, just watchful, curious, and maybe even a little annoyed.

Four days ago I knelt next to a shelf of books near closing time, the store quiet save for a few last-minute shoppers and J., our manager, talking with J.2 by the register. As I straightened the books, looking down at a lower shelf, someone brushed by me out of the electronics room, which is low-ceilinged and closed in, rather like a cave. I felt the pressure of this person's passing, and the rush of wind against my cheek and temple. I glanced sideways, seeing in my half-view a slender slip of a man walking quickly toward the front of the store, shoulders hunched, wearing dark clothes, perhaps charcoal gray. Thinking it was a customer that needed help, I patted the last book into place and turned to get up, hoping to intercept the man before he made it all the way to the register to ask for assistance, saving him a few feet.

As I turned I realized that the man was no longer there and could not have disappeared from view in the amount of time that it took me to turn. J. and J.2 still spoke by the register. The door to the upstairs was closed and had not opened. I stood there blinking for a moment, thinking that perhaps J. had walked by, for he is slender and tall, but he himself was leaning against the counter, completely at ease and still.

Quietly, I made a quick circuit of the store. The last few customers had already left, and no one was nearby. I didn't say anything and just went back to the books.

*From The Haunting, 1963

Dealing

I am coping with mine and Jeff's breakup, and though it is a little better every day I am not going to write about it online anymore, unless I have another insight to add. I wrote about it mainly to let all those whom I know and care about what happened, and now the rest of the emotional bruising I will deal with on my own.

I also wanted to let people know about the symptoms of emotional and verbal abuse, as I'd never experienced them before and felt that it was important for people to understand.

Once again, Jeff is an amazing person who was simply not truthful with himself and not truthful with me. I hope that he realizes how he needs to improve and how we could have worked together on our relationship if communication and faith had been the norm.

Henceforth, I will only write about this type of abuse in general, as I learn more about it and as I speak to counselors to help me through this "exiting" of a relationship.

Thank you all for your support and insights. They have helped me immensely in this difficult time, and I want my friends and family to know how very much you all mean to me. I hope that I can return the favor with love and insights for you all one day, albeit in happier circumstances!

Thank you again.

Strange Jump

The last time I wrote here I was full of anticipation of moving to Laramie, Wyoming, to start my new life with Jeff and our dogs, Shelby and Dally. After living together for a month, Jeff proposed. Happily, I accepted. We set a date for July 3rd, reasoning that if we felt solid enough, why not make it official?

If things had gone to plan we would be in Estes Park tonight, readying for the most joyous day tomorrow at 4 o' clock.

Jeff broke up with me on June 22nd, on our way down to Estes to pick out the wedding locataion.

The day started badly, with our dogs being attacked by a loose boxer while Jeff took them on their morning run. On the way down, a person in an SUV started riding our bumper, flipping us the bird though we were going just above the speed limit. Jeff became more and more angry, so I tried to turn attention to the wedding, something positive to focus on. He started to fume, asking why we were having a wedding in Colorado at all, when I said I didn't like the front range because of the traffic. I replied because he wanted one, and therefore, we would have one.

He became eerily quiet for a moment, and then asked if I wanted one. "No," I replied, "not unless you want one. Weddings for me are not important--"

Before I could finish my thought that weddings are not important to me unless they are important to the people involved, and therefore ours was sacred, Jeff exploded with temper. He said that we were "not on the same page," his voice rising to a scream as he pounded at the steering wheel with his closed fist. I shrank in my seat, confused, frightened, and shaking with terror while the dogs cowered in the back seat.

"Okay, okay," I said, my voice a high, thin thread of panic. "I'll learn to like weddings for you Jeff, all weddings. If that's what you need I will learn to like them."

I knew I was babbling because I was trying to say anything that would placate him at that time. I was terrified of being hit. I was terrified of this new, sudden Jeff that shredded the man I knew. I was bewildered because our wedding not being important never even entered my mind, and I didn't get why he, a cultural iconoclast, thought weddings in general as being so important. In my mind I was clear, but in the moment I was in great fear.

He broke off our engagement then, and still has not spoken to me, beyond telling me I needed to get out of the trailer. I had one week, and he'd be back, and I better be gone. This was a repeat of last November, but this time I had nowhere to flee. I needed to be out in a week, or my things would be out on the lawn and Shelby and I would be homeless.

Thankfully, God sent Levy and Julia, my friends from Shoshone Lodge, whom I had come to think of as brother and sister the summer before, when I was a housekeeper there. Levy was the cook and Julia was a waitress. They have a good apartment in West Laramie, where Shelby and I can stay. I have a good little room overlooking a field of swaying grasses, and a view of the ribbon of sunset. There are dirt roads amd a large park to the west.

Looking back, I knew in some sense that this was coming. In the time after he proposed there were only two days where he looked happy and content. After that he would not return my smiles, just "Hm," if I looked at him with love.

In retrospect, I know he was looking for a way out, instead of telling me how he felt. It was common.

So, in less than a week my life as I knew it has changed. I saw the man whom I already thought of as "husband" leave me. I saw the future children in my mind's eye and heart disappear. I lost a family that I loved, a niece and a sister-in-law. I lost Dally. I lost almost everything save for my friends and my family.

Thank you all for your help and offers of help. Just knowing you were there helped keep my heart together.

Dromedary

I have been moving since 9 AM this morning: setee, armoire, tables, bookshelves, desk, lamps, all carted into the garage so they'll be easier to put in the truck in the evening. Now evening is here and still no truck. Ergo, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

That is all.

* * *

On the other hand, my car is packed and ready, save for the chunk of our veggie and herb gardens that will go on the floor spaces. Yesterday, when I made a final visit to Ralston Reservoir, I also picked a variety of sage so I can smudge our new place. My car is going to smell delicious. When I got in to cram my yoga mat and hand weights into a nook or two my car already smelled like a savory stew. So nice.

Mother nature also decided to gift me with a large goose feather. Before every positive move I've made in my life I always find a shed primary feather from a bird. This made me feel so blessed. Shelby and I I ran the quarter mile back to the car, leaping like a deer over knee-high sage and rabbit brush.

I am sure that if any of the farming and ranch folk saw me they'd think the hippies were invading.

Just before we left Shelby walked down to the western chanel, where we walked when the reservoir was still thick blue ice. This time she kept walking and calmly strolled into the soft green water. She swam in a few matter-of-fact circles before getting out and showering me with her shake. I laughed and probably startled the cottontails and marmots. I will miss that place so much.

But now to look forward! I'll be offline for a few days, as tomorrow is moving day with a minimum 9-hour drive.

(Oy vey!)

Places I'll Miss

There are places I will miss when I move to Laramie. This place has, after almost eight years, started to feel like home to me.

The Montana fossil beds.

Our old house with the slanty floors and creaking barns.

The bench at sunset. (Polecat Bench)

Red Lodge, Montana.

Ralston Reservoir.

Prejudice

I don't hold much against people when it comes to philosophies. When it comes to politics and religion I believe that diversity is a grand thing; it shows that there is no one right way to do things and serves as a check-and-balance against a single majority. Pluralism is always better. There have been powerful people throughout history who thought that there should be only one way of doing things and this either resulted in people beginning restless revolutions or mass genocide.

As long as people are not repressed, coerced, or imprisoned and all is consensual I believe in "Live and let live."

When it comes to spirituality I believe, as my Hebrew teacher did, that "God comes to us in ways that we can understand." If someone chooses to be Pagan, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Russian Orthodox, Mormon, agnostic, atheist, or any of the hundreds of faiths on the planet I do not care. What is important is that they find their God or their Goddess or Pantheon and feel that their belief fulfills whatever spiritual need they have. I will not let this affect my philosophy that all humans are equal until we decide not to be by violating the health and well-being of others.

I have friends who are Christian, am in love with an agnostic, have friends who are Mormon, Jewish, Pagan, Wiccan, and relapsed Protestant. I respect all of their beliefs even if I do not agree with them eye to eye on spiritual matters. I find beauty in each religion: the vitality of family bonds in Mormonism, the infusion of spiritual belief into everyday actions by Judaism, the connection to nature that the Pagans have. One of the most calming, sanctifying funerals I went to was Catholic, with its Our Fathers and communion. My own spirituality is a hybrid of Christian-Wiccan-agnostic.

Strangely, when I interact with people who are a part of minority religions, who cry for equality and understanding, I find that they in turn can be just as prejudiced against the "mainstream" faiths. For example, once I exchanged a month's worth of emails with a man who was Wiccan. When he complimented me on my carved pumpkin at Samhain (Halloween) and said he admired how a fellow Wiccan could have such a sense of humor about her spirituality, I replied that I do not consider myself Wiccan, but more of the hybrid I described above. Immediately all emails stopped and I didn't hear from him again.

Another time I befriended a woman who was an Eclectic Pagan. Again, she assumed that because I knew of her faith and ideals that I was a fellow Eclectic. When I corrected her and explained my kind of spirituality I lost all contact. Apparently, my tolerance of Christianity was the dealbreaker for her on our friendship. She thought I would try to convert her, even though I told her I found that anyone trying to convert a stranger or a friend to their way of worship is distasteful to me. I believe all spirituality should come from free will.

I don't understand the reverse prejudice coming from those who ask for equality themselves. They in turn are just as ugly as the people who judge them by the way the understand God.

Moooving

Jeff went down to Laramie on Monday; I will follow on Friday with the majority of our furniture and container garden. Oh the joys. Hooray. Hooray.

But enough gripe!

For the past two days Jeff prepared the trailer for our impending arrival. Aside from learning that all of the windows are sealed shut and will need repair, the place seems like it will be a good home. He is treating it with great pride; after all, it is his first "real" home of his own. He is now a property owner.

Growing up, I knew my grandmother's house as The Trailer, a long brown behemoth in Bellflower, California. I loved the place that seemed almost shiplike, compact and with a place for everything and everything in its place. My grandmother even landscaped the yard, inheriting a great rubber tree from the previous owners. My memories of her trailer stayed with me as I grew up, and I've always held a fondness for small spaces because of the summers I spent there. Both Jeff and I agree: we will be happy if we take the trailer with us when it comes time to move away.

Tomorrow I disassemble the furniture and arrange the boxes from Most Important to Least Important. I've learned that most of my possessions consist of books and pottery that my friends and I have made.

To the Fanboys

My only rebuttal for those fanboys and fangirls who do nothing but gripe about the new Star Trek film:

"Canon is only important to certain people because they have to cling to their knowledge of the minutiae. Open your mind!" - Leonard Nimoy

There. The Man Himself said it to all of us. L.L.A.P.

Star Struck

I've seen the new Star Trek movie. Twice. It is just that good.

On Thursday night Beth, Jeff, and I went to see the movie in our local cinema; this made me a little nervous, as I've encountered a lot of theatre-talkers there. (It's the only cinema in town, two screen, privately owned.) Luckily, with the advent of digital Internet and wider access to the outside world, the cinema goers seem to have learned respect for their fellow audience in the past few years; I heard no overt talking and saw no cell phones. Of course, this could have something to do with the fact that the owners encourage anyone to hiss at an offender to quiet them down. Apparently benign vigilanteism works.

There were several groups from different demographics in the audience. The oldest there was an elderly woman in her 80s with her daughters. The youngest was a boy who looked to be about 5. I was quite impressed with the number of teenagers there, some boys but mostly girls; on the second night, when Jeff and I went alone there were several groups of teenage girls and their guy friends. I overheard one 17-year-old girl say she'd seen it three times since it came out the Thursday before.

Trek lives!

It's encouraging to hear younger people liking this new Trek. As Leonard Nimoy observed, Star Trek died several times over its 43-year history, only to resurrect itself in the younger generations. I was jazzed. One of my earliest memories is watching The Day of the Dove, one of the original Trek episodes, when I was almost three.

When The Next Generation came around I found the characters sweet but dull. It wasn't until around the third season that I watched it with regularity. Though TNG eventually held a fond place in my heart, like most Trekkers, I acknowledged that there was something special about the original series that could not be topped. There was a certain vitality that TNG never had, a certain innocence that Deep Space 9 could never touch, and an intrepidness that eclipsed even that of the Voyager crew. Enterprise had heart but no soul, much to the chagrin of many fans and Jolene Blalock, the fangirl actress who played T'Pol. When that series ended the Star Trek universe lay in state for nearly four years.

Now this film comes about, breathing vitality back into the fandom. With no guilt and no need to cotton to established canon, we really can boldly go with this new crew to places where no fan has gone before.

Review up ahead. If you don't want spoilers for the new Star Trek movie don't read past the new Uhura!

Zoë Saldana as Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, courtesy of Shockya.com

To save time and readers' eyes I'm just going to review a few key points that I as a Star Trek fangirl was particularly moved by. I am not a worshiper of canon and thought that this young cast was a perfect choice for a reintroduction into the universe I loved as a little girl.

Director J.J. Abrams – I am glad that the director was not an overt fan of Star Trek to begin with. This allowed him to free the universe from the shackles of canon and fan expectation. Yet, in spite of his re imagining, he included enough inside references not vital to the plot that still made me as a Trek fan feel welcome into his version of the show and characters. I also hear from a Lost fan that there are little clues to Abram's other works to make them feel welcome as well.

The new Enterprise – She is built. Sleek, silver, like a hot rod in space, she feels like a living ship, rather than a matte model cruising through the quadrant. Her bridge is like the glossy, dewy face of a young woman. Combined with the throb of her warp core and the little buzzes and beeps recycled from the original 1966 ship she breathes and has a heartbeat. The Enterprise is finally a character in her own right.

Lens flares and sun spots– What a contribution to atmosphere!

Best line – "No, not really. Not this time." Spock to Kirk on whether they agree that showing Nero mercy is the right thing to do.

Leonard Nimoy – Seeing Mr. Nimoy as Spock for the last time caused such a pure, sweet feeling of joy in me that I was brought to tears. At his repeating of the famous line: "I always have and always shall be your friend" caused me to go into a full weep. Mr. Nimoy brought such heart to the story, even a little bit of tongue-in-cheek humor at the complexities of the sci-fi plot, that I felt no one in the theatre could be unmoved by his performance. And judging by the amount of sighs in the room, everyone was indeed moved.

Kirk – It might be betrayal for saying this, but I think Chris Pine brought just the right amount of swagger, sexuality, slapstick, and intelligence to the character of James T. Kirk. I think that in all honesty, I wish Kirk Prime were a little more like him. Kudos to Pine for introducing the Shatner-esque sprawl to the new captain's chair, however. You have my respect as Kirk's new incarnation sir.

Spock – Zachary Quinto, your star is on the rise and you deserve it. He brought the edge of raw emotion to Spock while still being smoothly logical for most of the film. I especially loved the way he bit off his line of "Live long and prosper," to the Vulcan High Command, allowing just enough glint of temper in his eyes. Quinto shows a little more emotion leaning toward Spock's sad, tender, and temperamental nature, rather than to the side of humor and snark that the original Spock was also known for. Considering the nature of the plot, this emotive side of the impassive Spock is in just the right key.

McCoy – This is the character I felt emotionally closest to in this go-round. Karl Urban is a staunch fan of The Original Series and it shows. When he is introduced, growling about space flight and divorce in the Starfleet shuttle I felt immediately at home for the first time in the movie. I've always leaned toward McCoy as Trek's father figure, and though Urban has only a few years on me, I still felt that same paternal warmth coming from McCoy. Favorite line: "I don't know, but I like him!" McCoy to Kirk about the "pointy-eared bastard" Spock.

Uhura – Finally this character is given her due as a vital part of the Enterprise crew instead of just being a glorified administrative assistant! She is a linguist in her own right, bold, sensual, and intelligent. I also liked how athletic she seemed; she sprints down the hallways with strength and determination. She shows compassion and tenderness with her own character intact. I can easily see her as the original woman, who once helped hijack a Federation ship to save the life of a friend. Many kudos to Zoë Saldana for finally giving me a Trek woman with whom I felt immediate kinship.

Spock and Uhura – Also, finally. This love story makes the utmost sense to anyone who viewed the original series, especially the first few episodes, and later episodes when Spock tells Uhura he can think of no one else who can complete delicate work on computer connection boards. Even back when Star Trek was firmly placed in the man's world of the 1960s, Spock treated Uhura with more humanity than anyone else, as well as Kirk and McCoy. Quinto and Saldana have chemistry where several other established Trek couples lack. Seeing her hands caressing the back of his neck in the turbo lift and his hands on her hip in the transporter room gave me a sweet thrill.

Scotty, Chekov, Sulu – Excellent work gentlemen! Chekov has talent, unique abilities and is a darling to boot! Scotty is hilarious and maintains his genius. Sulu is a masculine, athletic fighter and saves Kirk's life. I hope for sequels so these characters can take more forefront story lines.

Physics – Even though I love the Star Trek universe, sometimes I find it hard to suspend disbelief, knowing what I know about space travel theory and basic physics. While this movie strained my belief yet again I also felt adequately seduced by the film to forgive the errors. Abrams also put in small moments that redeemed the far-fetched scientific plot. Once, when the hull of the USS Kelvin is compromised, a Starfleet officer is sucked out into space. As we follow the doomed woman out of the ship we hear her screams and the rush of escaping air. Once she is out in the vastness of space everything goes immediately silent. Bravo, Mr. Abrams. Another time is when Scotty looks at his future warp-transporter equation. "I never figured it was space that moves!" he exclaims, and indeed, if warp were an achievable science this is exactly how it would work. On the other hand, as Morbo from Futurama would say: "Black holes do not work that way!"

ETA 7:15 PM, Scotty

My sister, sweetheart, and I are planning on seeing the new Star Trek movie tonight at the local cinema. As always, I feel the same keyed-up energy that I feel before I depart on an airplane flight. Somewhere back in my early childhood, my psyche confused the anticipation of seeing a movie and air travel departure into one feeling. They've evoked the same reaction ever since. It's part of the reason why I don't go to the movies often.

I also don't go often because it's hard for me to sit through an entire movie unless I am really, really, really interested in the plot. For instance, the last movie I saw in the theatre was the third Pirates of the Caribbean flick, two summers ago. Even that had me squirming at about the two-thirds mark.

Most other movies I wait to come out on disc before I view them, and often do so alone, as I'll pause them to get up and fidget before sitting back down again to view the rest. My ADHD doesn't express in the classroom anymore, but cinemas drive me batty. At least with live theatre it's interactive and they allow for intermissions.

No soda for me, but I'll get some "fidget food" before I go in, preferably tiny candy that requires a lot of hand coordination to eat.

Anaïs Philosophy

"And you can be Henry Miller and I'll be Anaïs Nin,
except this time will be even better
we'll stay together in the end..."

–Jewel

Anaïs Nin, courtesy of Wikipedia

One of my favorite authors is Anaïs* Nin, the famed diarist and writer of erotica. While her erotica is beautiful –rare, because it is eroticism with a genuine woman's point of view, rather than a woman writing erotica with a traditional male voice—I prefer her diaries and letters. Every now and then through the years I pick up one of the volumes of her diary, both edited and unexpurgated, open it to a random page, and let her guide me through the streets of pre-WWII Paris.

As a hybrid pragmatist and dreamer I have to take Nin's writing with a grain of salt. She was known for her surrealism, her symbolism, her exploring of the creative aspect of neuroses. She identified strongly with her zodiac sign Pisces, which is the sign of the subconsciousness, water, and dreaming. I am a Virgo, her exact opposite on the celestial wheel, and indeed there were times when I was angry with Nin for her dreaming and fantasies. Yet, as she lived longer in Paris she began to understand that the world cannot be run by idealism and good intentions alone:

"Gonzalo, I hate injustice. I am in sympathy with your Marxism because it is idealistic. I can die for any faith which is idealistic. But now the Russian Revolution is split, corrupt, divided. The organization of the world is a task for realists. The poet and the workman will always be the victims of power and self-interest. No world will ever be run by an idealistic team because by the time it begins to function it ceases to be unselfish. When the Caltholic Church became a force, a power, an organization, it ceased to be a religion. The realist, the man of power and greed, always conquers over the humanist. Greed wins out. The world will always be ruled by the materialist." –October, 1936

Nin eloquently puts to words my own point of view. The world will never be run by good people with good intentions, true equality and open humanity. However, though the world will be ruled by pragmatists and people with a material bent and need for gain, there must also always be others who do operate from humanity's point of view. There must be those who still try, against the set odds, to make the world more artistic, compassionate, humanitarian, who try to bring to the world the things that take us beyond mere function and the need to eat, sleep, work for a living.

This is why it alarms me when I hear of schools cutting the arts for the sake of keeping sports. Though sports are valuable they are only part of the equation that takes us beyond the survival aspect of being human.

Arts are the expression, the emotion, the communication of a society. Sports are more basic, reflecting on the struggle-survival, the need to travel in packs for success of the whole. They are both needed, equally valuable. The reason why schools cut arts is because they are not nearly as lucrative as atheletics, with its banners and pennants and tickets to weekly games. Once again, this part of society, this small segment representing the whole, reflects Nin's belief that the materialist and the pragmatist will conquer, while the artists and the dreamers must struggle for balance.

*pronounced Anna-eese

Thou Vile Cabbage!

Speaking of insults, I love the old-style insults that called attention to some one's character, rather than body parts or excrement. Some of the best insults comes from Shakespeare, who was just as creative in making war as he was at making love, apparently. When I say the word "bastard" I mean it in that old-fashioned sense, like Edmund in King Lear:

"As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,
Got 'tween asleep and wake?
...Now, gods, stand up for bastards!"

To see an excellent clip of a chilling Edmund the Bastard literally biting off his lines, look here.

As for general insults, there is also a great Shakespearean Insult Generator available too. Some of my favorites are:

• "You are as rheumatic as two dry toasts." –Henry IV
• "Thou burly-boned sheep-biting baggage!"
• "O illiterate loiterer! "
• "Thou pribbling full-gorged popinjay!"
• "Thou rank rude-growing clack-dish!"

Stolen Iris

The iris plant I wanted to take with me to Laramie was stolen!

My mother is converting the garden she inherited from the previous owner into lawn and told two men last night that they could take whatever they wanted from the garden, as she would be roto-tilling it under anyway. What they took was a good third of the garden, including the giant clump of iris rhizomes that I was planning to divide and take with me to Laramie. I am furious.

What's more is that they left the roots of adjacent plants gaping open, exposed to the air. I know my mother will be getting rid of most of the plants, but some of them I hoped to divide so many people could have them, including some of my friends who expressed interest in some of the plants that were taken, once finals week was over. Now the plants are gone, including the iris plants. What these two men did not undertand is that the rhizomes need to be divided properly in order for them to flourish.

It is just so wasteful; the rhizomes they took could have started at least four dozen plants. Now when my friends come I get to tell them that I lied about the irises.

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. My mother offered free plants to these men, and of course these gluttons went home, attached a trailer to their truck, and came back to take a third of the plants. They aren't good gardeners or gentlemen either; if they were, they'd have known that the iris needed to be divided and offered some back to the giver.

This earned them one of the rare curses that will be found in my blog: piggish bastards!

Naming My Names

As a writer I am fascinated by both words and names. In the course of my schooling I discovered that some words sound like what they are supposed to describe, even beyond the humble onomatopoeia. For instance, "staccato" sounds exactly what it is supposed to describe, which is rapid, punctuated sound or movement. "Languid" sounds slow and lazy and relaxed, which is its exact definition.

I also am fascinated by names. Flannery O' Connor, in her short story Good Country People, ironically names the ugly daughter Joy and then Hulga, coming so far as to say that the girl picked out her second name because she herself felt so ugly.

Willie Lowman is the low, pathetic character in Death of a Salesman. (Arthur Miller said he didn't name his character "Lowman" on purpose. My teacher B.B. and I both think Mr. Miller was fibbing.)

Elizabeth Bennett, from Jane Austin's Pride and Prejudice, is given one of her many nicknames seemingly based on how those around her felt about her personally, varying from Liz, to Lizzie to Eliza and back again to Elizabeth.

John Updike named his lazy, motherly lead Alexandra in The Witches of Eastwick, choosing irony instead to name her after an ambitious, ruthless conqueror. However, the character Sukie is a playful, would-be sex kitten, and Jane is a simmering stick-in-the-mud. Quite clever.

In my own writings I tend to favor names tied to folktales and myths, or old Biblical names. I've recently began exploring nature names for a series of shorts I am creating. Some of my favorites are:

• Sawyer
• Lillith
• Beau
• Lucy
• River
• Leah
• Joseph
• James
• Dominic

Naming characters is second, I think, to naming children. In a way the characters are children, who evolve on their own, who can be twisted, distorted, strong, and faithful as I shape them. Sometimes, like children, they even shape themselves and become temporary muses. Some of these above have already debuted in published stories, and a few are on their way.

Grease is the Word

Last night I saw my sister Beth as Frenchy in the musical Grease! She was excellent and hammy, which is what the part calls for. The girl who played Rizzo and the boy who played Kenickie were also tops, and the girl who played Marty had just the right amount of snark. The girl cast as Sandy was the perfect ingenue, and I gather that it's not too far from her own character.

My sister has an arpeggio voice; even sitting several rows back my mother and I could pick out her voice from the final chorus.

This proved to be fortunate, as the sound system at the auditorium is in desperate need to a revamping. It was heartbreaking, because the cast were putting such heart into their performances, and much of the musical was augmented with static or cuts. However, the ones with the stronger voices (Rizzo, Kenickie, Frenchy, Doody) were better able to be heard over the interference. The audience were understanding, and though the sound was low much of the time they still gave a great ovation.

Kudos for the community players and director!

The Graduate

I am technically done with my work at Northwest College. I had my Capstone presentation on Tuesday and now have only to go to class today to see the presentations of the remaining five students. My active work is done. I am happy that after five years it's over but sad to be going; my college professors have become a sort of extended family over the years.

On the other hand, the University of Wyoming in Laramie is something to look forward to! Jeff and I will be moving down in about a week into our vintage trailer with the avocado green stove.

* * *

Now the celebratory mood begins!

On Tuesday night Jeff surprised me with a clean house, the dining table brought to the center of the room, and a candle burning brightly in the dim. He made me a spaghetti dinner on the sly, with an artistic vegetable plate, blood orange Italian soda, Cabernet wine, and huckleberry frozen yogurt for dessert. I grinned and hugged him for a good five minutes, thrilled that he'd do something like this. Quite a graduation present!

Next week I have a bit of tutoring left, and this week I wrap up my private sessions; I am glad, because this was a good run. Last semester the students tended to slack, but this one they have been quite dedicated.

Still, it will be a relief to go, as the difficulty of tutoring ESL students is far more of a strain than tutoring native speakers; I have to be a translator, cultural ambassador, and a dictionary all in one. I have to remind the students several times a session that I am not a trained teacher, only a tutor who knows a bit more about English than most other students because of the degree I am pursuing.

Because of my tutoring I have come to the conclusion that many students are sent abroad before they are linguistically ready to deal with a new language. I took three years of French before I visited the country, and though I was one of the best speakers in the group I also knew I was also woefully unprepared to live there longer than a summer. Many of these students here have taken English less than three years, so I can only imagine how difficult their classes are.

I also have come to the conclusion that not enough cultural training is issued by language teachers. Some of the international students are shocked when I know certain things about their individual counrties, and I don't quite know how to take that. I wonder if they think that Americans are largely ignorant of other countries –from their words of reaction I think that is so— and I wonder if that is because they have been taught this idea by their own country people or if they come to this conclusion after living in America for a semester. At any rate, they are both uncomfortable possibilities to deal with.

Many international students are largely unaware of the diversity of cultures within America. I often remind them how large America really is, when I say that I haven't been to New York (neither have they,) or don't like souped up muscle cars and techno music. I have a feeling that international cities, such as L.A. and N.Y. are held up as the bastions of American culture, and if Americans don't fit into those comfortable slots they are mystified.

This is not to say that all international students are like this. Many are well-informed and open-minded people, and these are refreshing to work with. I also wonder if cultural and linguistic ignorance isn't also factored by age; the students who seem to be more enlightened also tend to be a little bit older than the average student.

Last Monday

...Of all the bloody mornings for the college website to go down...

Yeah. The last week of school and formal classes and the Northwest website goes kaput. I'll bet it's a circus in Computer Services right now.

Anglish English

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

Part of the challenge in tutoring ESL (English as a Second Language), is that many international students are coached in only one kind of accent. They are often told "Americans say it this way" while they learn inflection and accent. However, this does the student a disservice; as America is a nation of immigrants and native peoples we have many different dialects and regional accents.

I have been asked my several Wyomingites if I am from another country. When I tell them that I am from northern California and they become quite confused. Amusingly enough, my sister and I have both experiences with southern Californians asking if we are from Ireland. Apparently the nor Cal accent has many more dental and clipped consonants than in other parts of the country.

Many of the international students hear my nor Cal accent and become confused when I pronounce a word without the broader heartland accent that their Wyoming teachers have. I have to remind them that the sheer size of the United States contributes to several different accent regions, and in highly mixed populations, such as urban New York, they might find dozens of different accents within a hundred mile radius. I've described the southern drawl, the nasal accent of Queens, and the rough, bass accents of the Bronx and Brooklyn.

My own accent is compounded with a little bit of the Canadian and British accents; as a child I often watched the Public Broadcasting System in the days before America had its own version of the BBC. I picked up on their ways of saying "programme," "advertisement," and "schedule" rather than the usual American pronunciations.

I wonder why teachers of second languages often neglect to teach accent and dialects. These students often seem unprepared for encounters with actual languages.

When I was taking high school French from Madame Soper I was lucky; she taught about the regional accents of France and its outlying territories while simultaneously requiring us to speak with the Parisian accent. One Spanish teacher I knew of only required her class to learn the vocabulary; the accents of her students came out flat and obviously generic American.

Uno Mas

One more week of school left! I am taking the Capstone class, which requires a student to synthesize all of the information she's learned over the course of earning her degree. This means a fair amount of independent study and a presentation at the end of the semester. After Tuesday I will be done!

Of course, tutoring will remain, but for the large part I will be done at the college. I am not walking in the graduation procession; at 28 I feel I am too old for such "decorum est." Plus, it's a good $150 to participate in the ceremony, money which could be better spent on rent and groceries. Jeff says he'll plan on walking at his Bachelor graduation, but I myself will take off camping for a weekend instead.

Tomorrow begins my Last Week Ever at Northwest. I am jazzed to be going and also a little sad to be leaving the people whom I feel are like family. Fortunately, I just found out that someone whom I care about very much may be going down to UW next year. I hope to meet up with her there.

Next week comes the sorting, the packing, and the discarding. It will be good to pare down even further on possessions with old history.

Twitter Me Timbers –or– I'll Be a Steampunkin' Baby Bump!

Being an English major, I've fallen into the habit of speaking with good grammar as much as I try to write with such. However, when I am relaxed and happy I speak with double negatives, shoddy grammar, and drop my endings, such as in "gettin'." It's become teasing fodder for Jeff, but I think it's only fair, as I try to guide him into saying words like "host," and "boat" to hear his wonderful Wisconsin accent.

(That said, the "mouse in the house" easily comes out of him this week. Lovely!)

As an English tutor for several international students, I find myself being a sort of cultural and language ambassador. Most hard for me to explain are the slang words; I don't use them that much myself, as a) I am older by 10 years over most of the students and b) meanings of slang words change so fast that they're hard to keep up with. I'm better at the vernacular sayings, such as "see you later, gator/pigeon/sugarplum," "how goes it?" and "'chupto?"

Lately there have been words and slang entering the American English language that I cannot stand, and I grit my teeth whenever I hear them. Fortunately, gritting teeth can often be mistaken for grins, so I don't cause too much public dissent.

Below is a small list of the ones that annoy me the most:

• baby bump – I used to think this was cute, but as time goes on I find myself realizing the irritating nature of the phrase used to describe the maternal swelling associated with pregnancy. "Baby bump" makes me think of some horrible disease that afflicts only infants: "Did you hear about Karen's new son Evan? He's got the baby bump!" I think that reverting to "pregnancy belly" or "baby belly" is fine. In general, bumps are not seen as harbingers of great joy.
• steampunk – For the love of all that is holy, can someone finally tell me what this actually means? I get the steam, but where does the punk come in to the equation? Many steampunkers don't seem to listen to the music and just like the brass-and-gears look. As one phile of the aesthetic put it, "I like the look of steampunk but hate the name, and I don't like much of the music. Why don't we call the style [itself] neo-Victorian or Victorian fantasy?" Amen, brother.
• twitter – Okay, I get the fact that it's a gadget. I get the fact that is truncates everyone's lives down into less than 200 words. I get that it's another electronic device that allows for communication. I just don't like "twitter" as a verb. Not that I don't expect people to put down their technology and go back to the ways of the telegraph and smoke signals, but the next young pup to ask me: "Do you twitter?" is either going to get an eyefull of mud or a ten-minute lecture describing how I am not of avian descent.

Bird Buds

The winter weather broke yesterday, mid-morning. Today people are cautiously going about in t-shirts, and I saw one brave soul in clam-diggers and a tank top. Of course, she was folded in on herself and shivering, so I was glad I was a wuss and wore my Guinness hoodie.

Yesterday Jeff, Dally and I took advantage of the maybe spring weather and went to the Ralston Reservoir to watch birds. My mother had treated us to a bird watching class in April, so we celebrated May Day with our newfound birding prowess.

The Reservoir was a great choice. We ran down the bank brushy with willows and cottonwoods to emerge onto a plate of grassland. The grass is so tall it almost feels like swimming through the leaves, and indeed Dally had to bound through it like a land dolphin. The Reservoir is shaped like a great shrimp, with a skinny tail pointing west, flowing into a great round head also pointing west. At the eastern end of the hairpin back is a cattail swamp, fueled with water from the famous Garland Canal.

Jeff made the first find beyond the usual robins and starlings: a yellow-headed blackbird.

In total, we saw:

• yellow-headed blackbird
• yellow-rumped warbler (Jeff's favorite)
• American coot
• ruddy duck
• canvasback
• northern shoveler
• sandhill crane
• American white pelican
• whooping crane? (rare)

There were also the uaual myriad of mallards, Canadian geese, robins, and grackles. The white crane perplexes me the most; whooping cranes are very rare birds but this was also one of the classic mirgating areas before their populations suffered from human development. The visual I made matched up the information found in the Sibley Field Guide to Birds, but with their numbers estimated at 145 individual birds, maybe I saw something else? Perhaps an albino sandhill? No egrets should be here in Wyoming, so I am rather confused.

We also saw several marmots cruising about the canal like water bears. It was strange to see the water flowing rich and green where Jeff and I walked on thick blue ice in January.

Mousie Housie

I saw it. I saw the mouse. It's a cute little thing, a light, creamy brown with rounded ears. She looks a lot like Dally.

It's hard, because now I've seen it's face, but we'll need to trap it tonight or tomorrow. Then we'll put it out for the kesterels to enjoy. It's the ciiiiircle of liiiiife.

Mice!

We have mice. Last night Dally stood for a long time at the refrigerator, her prick-ears pushed up and forward as far as they could go. She peered into the crack in between the fridge and counter for five minutes. I walked by and she didn't even note that I was about to get into her favourite food storage cupboard. Confused, I frowned at her.

"She's been doing that lately," Jeff said, noting my look as he sat back from his studies.

"For how long?"

"Two days."

I closed the cupboard and went to look between the fridge and the wall. Nothing. Dally was still standing there, only now she orbited around the side and front.

"I already looked. Nothing there that I could see," Jeff said, coming over.

I called Shelby over to see if she would react. Both dogs thought then that they were about to get a treat, so they started wagging their tails and getting excited. I tried to listen behind the fridge, but at that moment the motor came on and drowned out any sound.

"Drat," I said, and started getting ready for bed.

This morning Jeff stoped by while I worked on my PowerPoint presentation. He looked worried and pretrubed, all at once. "I saw it," he said. "A little brown mouse scurried across the floor."

"The kitchen floor?"

"Yes."

"Great," I said, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. "Now we have to worry about the hantavirus."

"I wanted to know how you felt about... mice traps." Jeff murmured, nervously peering into my eyes.

"Get 'em. Just not the stickum sheets; the ones that snap and break the neck. I don't want them to suffer." I shuddered, thinking of how many stick sheets I'd sold while working at Pamida. Those trap mice to a fly paper-like sheet until they die of thirst. Far too long.

"Right," Jeff said, heading out the door.

Oh, the joys of living out in the country.

So Embarassing

Miss California, already infamous for her stance on homosexual rights, has now become the face for the ultra-conservative National Organization for Marriage, which is out to "protect" traditional marriage, i.e. between a man and woman.

While everyone in this country is protected under free speech, (at least officially,) the way this woman communicates is what raises my ire. She speaks only in rote, repeating quotes she's heard during her years as a conservative in church. She roots her opinions in misinformation, stating that homosexuality is a choice and that gay marriage attacks traditional marriage. I've read little to no original ideas from this woman; in short, she's just a very pretty parrot.

So embarrassing. If you're going to speak in staunchly opposite terms you should at least do so gloriously and with your own thoughts on a matter. Essentially, because of her background, she's naught more than a well-groomed poodle with a soap box.

I am embarrassed for all women of intellect. Oy.

All that said, when it comes to marriage I think the word itself should be left in the Church or Synagogue or forest Circle. For the rest of the process–the legal side—I believe that everyone should be equal with a civil union. That way secular heterosexuals could be joined without religious ties if they wanted, and homosexuals could cement their legal bond to allow for easier adoptions, parental rights, and their loved one into hospital ward if an accident occurs. This part of marriage should be a civil union for everyone. Leave an ceremonial marriage up to spiritual or philosophical beliefs.

Speaking of equality: Kudos are due for actress Kelly McGillis this week, for coming to terms with herself and enjoying the calm that goes with knowing who you are.

Baby Mine

My cousin K., whom I think of as a sister, will have her first child in November with her wonderful husband P. at her side. I'm going to be a Tía!*

I am happily already in the "bragging auntie" mode. I got a taste of this with our friend K.B., who lives here in Wyoming. Her two little ones have primed my mother, sister and I for infants and children, and indeed, we also think of them as part of our family. I am especially enamored of her infant son C., who has the sweetest disposition of any infant I have ever met. Her daughter K., who is nearly two, is a fun little pistol who "taught" me how to properly dye Easter eggs this month. Proper little Georgia O'Keefe, that one!

With the first little one of my immediate family on the way I am fascinated by modes of parenting. I recall my mother being pregnant with my sister when I was two, and her going into labor while over for lunch at my grandmother's trailer in Bellflower, California. My father was temporarily MIA, so as we geared up to take my mother to the hospital I remember proudly touching her knees when she moaned through an early labor contraction. I also remember screaming in indignation when my father did show up and I could only tag along at a later hour. Drat.

My mother used cloth diapers for both my sister and I. I remember her washing the graying squares of cloth and hanging them out to dry in the warm northern California wind. I remember her boiling glass bottles, and boiling peas to mash for my sister's supper or taking a Gerber jar out of the fridge. My mother parented in mostly a "natural" way, part out of personal belief, part out of dire economic necessity. Today she might be referred to as "semi granola."

For my part, I weaned myself off of nursing before I was a year old, refused to drink formula, and gummed through my first solid foods: fried sausage and French vanilla ice cream one morning at my great-grandmother's tidy apartment. I drank cow milk, ate mashed vegetables or finely sliced meats. When my sister came along my mother allowed her to follow the trail my mother and I had blazed. In part, I think my mother was semi-granola because her eldest daughter was precocious and she was tired, so she just let the near-three-year-old handle part of the parental duties. Like my little friend K., I "taught" my mother how to take care of my sister Beth.

It led to a much closer bond between my sister and I. It also meant that her speech was delayed a little because I translated her baby talk and obscure sounds into the English language. Today I feel more than a little sheepish.

Since I myself had infant dreams last night, in which I carried my young son on my hip as we hiked through the mist of a waterfall, I woke up with a bit of sadness and anticipation for the coming years. I am sad that this son was nothing more than a dream, but I look forward to the real sons and daughters and nieces and nephews who come into my life.

For fun, I went to one of those parental sites and took the entertainment quiz for parenting style. What I got was a near copy of how my mother raised my sister and I:

"You lean more toward Attachment Parenting, natural births, homepathic remedies, and living green! You tend to question modern medicine and mainstream parenting. You tend to delay vaccines or use an alternate schedule. You aren't bothered by the fact that people tend to question your parenting style. You feel strongly about the way you're raising your kids. You believe that it's our duty to make the earth a better place for our children by being more eco-friendly. You buy organic foods whenever you can and you use cloth diapers or seriously considered it. You've also considered homeschooling.

When people see you with your baby you're usually wearing her in a sling or wrap. You tell new moms who complain about lack of sleep to try co-sleeping with baby and let them know how much you loved co-sleeping. You believe in breastfeeding and baby led weaning, but to a point. And you'll nurse in public but modesty is important to you.

You aren't afraid to disagree with your Dr about delaying solids or vaccines. You don't like to let your baby cry and cry-it-out methods make you cringe. However, if nothing else is working you are willing to try it once the baby reaches a certain age. You read different books about parenting and take what you feel will work for you and your family. You tend to believe in trusting your instincts when it comes to raising your kids."

Amen, sistahs.


*"aunt" in Spanish

Tongue Drum

Tongue drum, courtesy of acousticopia.com

Last time Jeff and I ventured up to Red Lodge we stopped in a hoity toity furniture store to browse. (Red Lodge is half kitchy quaint, half hoity toit. It's both a tourist/retirement town and a place where farmers and the declining families of old coal mine backers live.) As we browsed about I found this box with strange spoon shapes cut into its lid. Noting a small leather-head mallet, I looked around to make sure that the clerk had gone, and tapped at the spoons.

A warm, glowing sound emanated from the box, sounding like a cross between a gong and a woodwind. Warm as copper, as smooth as water.

"Oooh," I said, looking at Jeff with huge eyes. "That's nice."

What I found was a tongue drum. It's a drum with a long history, played in Africa, Asia, and South America. It's close cousin is the mbira, the gourd-shaped instruments with little metal tongs that are strummed with the fingers. I have always loved drums, drawn to these particular instruments because of their earthy song. The tongue drum produces some of the earthiest notes with the most ethereal tones.

Some of my favorite tongue drum videos:

Tongue Drum (just try not to dance like a goddess about a fire to this one!)

Whale Tongue Drum!

Water Song

I so need to get one, yes indeed.

Missing Spring

This is why I miss spring. Photos are from a trip to the Pryor Mountains to view a wild mustang herd in June of 2007. It was a lovely day, with visits to alpine meadows, the herd, and an ice cave. My sister and I loved the wildflowers and green grass with the red soil peeking out from underneath; it reminded us very strongly of where we grew up in northern California.

Bear balm in the Montana wind.

Seasonal spring; the mountains are full of caves and underground lakes.

Fireweed basking in the sun

Desert lily and wild juniper.

Indian paintbrush, Wyoming's state flower, and some sort of artemisa.

Adagio for Teas

Temmoku tea bowl, Song Dynasty, courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art

When I was younger I thrived off of Safeway Select brand cola. The closest generic taste to genuine Coca Cola, it was luscious, plentiful, and cheap. I would often come home from high school, pop open an off-red can and nurse that until it turned warm and stale. Then around age 19 I developed a more sophisticated palate and evolved to sipping Lipton black tea. I had it in my mind that there was something sophisticated about tea, the singing kettle, the delicacy of my mother's white tea cups.

At a very young age I became fascinated with the American Revolution and remembered that tea played as a major factor in the war for independence. That carried over to my young adulthood, and when my grandmother asked me if I preferred tea or coffee one morning when she visited, I tilted my chin toward the ceiling and said in the most prim voice I could muster: "Tea, of course."

She sunbeamed a smile and went about preparing a pot; my grandmother is a globe trotter and had visited England earlier that year, where she learned how to make a "proper" cup of English tea.

I sat down at the table, my grandmother giving me a white cup full of something that smelled strange. I frowned and sniffed at the steam coming off the tea. This was no Lipton. When I took a sip of the heady black tea I tasted for the first time the fire of bergamot, combined with a black burn. I later learned that this was Earl Grey, one of the most famous varieties of black tea in the world. Suddenly hearing Captain Picard ordering: "Tea, Earl Grey, hot," all those years on the starship Enterprise made sense; I was hooked on tea for life.

As my palate grew I found myself heading into wide arcs where I could not get enough of one flavor for long periods of time. Metallic oolong, smoky yunnan bo nay, woody darjeeling (the exact tea the colonists threw into Boston Harbor), and Earl Gray all occupied my favourites shelf from time to time. I had friends with coastal access to Asian markets sending me supplies in Lipton-exotic Wyoming. Later, I discovered herbal teas, like choco-mint and chamomile, lemon grass and ginger being my favourites.

My mother recently gifted me with a tea press from Adagio, along with access to the several sampler sets of teas she purchased. She recommends the peppermint, while Jeff recommends the chocomint and I the foxtrot. They also have the Zodiac Series of teas in pretty tins, which blends teas according to your sun sign, if you believe in such things. My mother loves her Libra blend. I look forward to trying Virgo, which combines "white peony, chamomile and lemon grass," some of my favourite tastes.

In Memoriam

In memory of Bea Arthur, who passed away this morning. Here's to a wonderful, hilarious, ground-breaking woman with an earthy voice, metal wit, and warm energy. You will be missed, you sassy lady.

Ogres Are Like Onions

Wyoming celebrates Earth Day and Arbor Day combined into one happy mish-mash of events. Yesterday my mother went to the celebration downtown and got an armful of free plants: mock orange, lilac, crab apple, and more. She also got a pocketful of Walla Walla onions for Jeff and I, as the trailer is on someone else's land and trees or shrubs are greedily claimed by the landlords.

My mother said it was heartening to see so many people at The Commons to claim free trees and shrubs; our friend Kate was there, walking out with a double armload of lilacs to make a windbreak on her property. She also observed many people asking about drought-friendly gardening. There were several free booklets about how to plant and water most effectively for Wyoming's harsh environment. With both desert drought and extreme winters, plants need to have roots of iron to thrive here.

With people becoming more enviornmentally conscious and the economy being what it is, many in town are cutting down on lawns and erecting drought or vegetable gardens instead. Rather amusing, as some of the hardcore Republicans, who were once against such conservation as a radical liberal idea, are merrily making gardens of their own.

I am at a loss for the Right's attitude against conservatism at times. Are not Republicans for conservative measures in all walks of life? I'm more surprised that they are not the original tree huggers, if they believe in saving money and resources.

(By the by, if anyone is curious, I consider myself a liberal Republican or a conservative Liberal. Riddle me that!)

Now we have a garden ready for chilis, pasta sauces, and baking. I cannot wait for the plants to become a little more strong and for the warmth of spring to return.

Basilcicles

For the past few days our corner of Wyoming experienced a warm front of 80° F (26.6° C). Usually warm fronts in the spring mean that summer is on its way and that soon we may be walking about in flip-flops and clam-diggers. On the edge of the Midwest, a warm front can also mean impending snow. This warmth turned out to be the latter.

80° to 27° F in 24 hours. That is quite a bit of math.

Yesterday my mother and I planted our yearly herbs. We knew that snow might happen from here until mid-May (though snow at any time of year is possible,) so we were prepared to bring them inside, even from the sheltered deck, if it got cold. Last night the basil started to curl in the icy wind after I left, and when I arrived back at the house this morning I found that my mother had carted all of the pots back in by herself.

I sighed and wished that she'd called me, because honestly, a seven minute drive to bring in heavy pots is far preferable than my mother bringing them in on her own. She has to have physical therapy from a recent fall, and her back is not quite up to snuff after surgery a year and a half ago.

She is so getting a talking to when she gets home from physical therapy! ...Though on the other hand, some lifting is good for her. I just wish I'd been here to supervise.

The living room now smells wonderful, like a mini summer garden. I am anticipating bringing the herbs down to Laramie and concocting some amazing sauces from the herbs. The only time I am interested in food preparation is when I can have a hand in it from harvest to cooking. This is also why I appreciate seeing the deer and antelope our friends hunt when they are brought back fresh from the woods or field. It feels more real to me to see the plant or animal I am eating; it makes me feel more grateful to God and nature when I have this food.

So far I planted:

• chives
• basil
• cilantro
• mint
• thyme
• rosemary

My mother went fancy and got two kinds of cilantro to make some spicy salsa. Since we both grew up in California we lived off of the stuff. Our family of gringas often ate the foods of our immigrant Mexican neighbours, and the smell of cilantro and tomatoes always takes us back. I remember the home garden of my friend Raoul and his mother Maria, whom I always visited when I was very small. Her cooking is one of the fondest memories of my childhood, and I remember the ropes of her strong brown arms as she plucked cilantro for the chunky salsa she made.

Green (Taped) Thumbs

Since the ideal of sustainable living seems to appealing to just about everyone nowadays it's quite trendy to grow vegetable and herb gardens. While I already live in a rural farming area, and there are already many people growing home gardens, this year the idea seems to have spread into even the tiniest of town yards. I see people digging rows with their chilren following behind with trowels, people pulling rocks and tranfsorming flower beds into herb or vegetable gardens.

Wyoming's short summer season ensures that no heavy duty garden planting occurs until mid-May, and we have a short growing time of three months. (This is why most farmers plant fast-growing feed corn, sugar beets, barley, and pinto beans.) Usually, if one wants to plant a garden from seed, it is necessary to start your plants indoors.

So far Jeff and I have planted:

• wax beans
• "Little Marvel" peas
• tomatoes of unknown pedigree
• radishes
• cucumbers
• carrots
• red onions

Our first sproutlings have cleared the tops of the milk jugs we cut apart to create seed planters. Now just to get them down to Laramie intact...

Jeff seems to have taken to horticulture as well as he takes to the rocks. Every morning he lifts the heavy wooden shelves that house the seedlings and takes it to a sheltered wall outside in the full sun. He sprinkles water onto them from a handmade watering jug he created that flows gently for seedlings. His face is set serious, mouth pursed critically, as he inspects the plants for signs of windburn or growth. I usually just grin at him, leaning against the door with my ankles crossed.

As much as I love gardening, those seedlings are his babies. I plan to take the reigns for the upcoming herbs and flowers though, as my kitchen witchy temperament demands that I take some part in this glorious growing cycle.

Visualize Verbalize Ad

Some hilarious hep cats created a commercial for the Northwest College's Visualize Verbalize arts magazine 2009 issue! It's hosted by a "Russell Crowe look-alike" speaking in warm, dulcet tones.

I've been accepted to this year's issue, which is going to be my last after four years. I will miss the magazine and the people behind it to be sure.

And now, without further ado:
The Amazing Stupendous NWC Visualize Verbalize Commercial

Cedar Mountain

Anti-gravity stroll: the master.

Anti-gravity walk: the novice.

Me and Shelby having a cuddle during soft rain.

Jeff beginning a new ascent.

Shelby and Jeff, mountain goats!

Cedar Mountain II

The pups in our temporary camp.

The look I get on my face when Jeff looks at me.

Gravity is optional where the world is steep.

Jeff and Dally being Om.

Dally the Mouse says: "I'm taking the car keys, Dad!"

Family

Oy vey. I was recently reminded about my own salad days as a young wife when I witnessed a young couple speaking about their engagement to an older woman. The woman was delighted at the news of their upcoming wedding, grasped them both by the shoulder, and cheerfully asked them when they were going to have a baby.

The young man went wall eyed. The young bride looked for a moment as if she'd swallowed water down the wrong pipe. The cheerful woman was oblivious.

I felt complete sympathy for those two; I endured that question several times from my then-husband's family during our engagement, and twice more on our wedding day. I didn't understand why his people were so adamant that we "start a family" so soon and wondered if they expected us to conceive during our reception. Later, I asked my newly minted husband why his family were so intent on baby-making. He blushed red and said that so far, of his generation, we were the first couple to be married without a baby already on the way.

"...Ah," I said, and turned to face forward as we drove to our honeymoon destination. "I see. So we broke 'tradition.'"

Flash forward eight years, after a divorce, and I went into almost total recall when I witnessed the moment of discomfort from the two lovers. I snapped out of it a moment later and had to chuckle; I know myself much better than I did when I was their age, and knew I'd have some tongue-in-cheek retort for the well meaning lady. Poor soul.

I still wonder why people refer to having children as "starting a family" when two people are already married or promised to each other. Are not the couple already a family? I know I would consider someone to whom I committed to be part of my family, even more so than some relations-by-blood. If or when a child is born it only makes that family larger, stronger, more sweet, but it doesn't lessen what the devoted couple already had together. From there they can only grow.

The traditional family is long gone, and indeed, if one reviews history it was largely a myth, a product of the nuclear era. The husband-wife-2.8 children-and-a-dog is not nor has ever been the only formula for families. Growing up, I knew children with one family, two families, step- and half- and adopted siblings who were closer to them than blood, more cherished. I knew single parents, parents with extended families, and in one case, a parental team of three living in the same house. I knew families that consisted happily of two live-in lovers who chose to not get married, nor have children, but it didn't mean that they were familyless.

What does matter, however, is that love exists. That is a better foundation for a family than blood or documents or contracts, religious or secular, with children, without children, or expecting children in the future.