On believing
Is there a god?
Is there a higher power?
Is there salvation, damnation, oblivion?
Is there diversity in believing?
Can one person’s white be another one’s black?
I believe so.
I believe that one person can go through and back the entire gamut of grays.
Like laughing and crying in the same sentence.
I believe in the surface, the edge between water and air, and I believe that’s where I want to be. I believe in the flow, and you can fight it or go with it, depending on your energy, but to succeed you must acknowledge it exists.
I think other people are more sensitive to spirits than I am, so how can I say whether or not they exist. I believe in changes in the weather, and seeing birds or animals as signs of what? God’s existence? God’s awareness of my existence? God’s comfort? Grace.
Bashert, Fate, things that happen for a reason. The reasonableness of things that happen?
But I am an ameliorist. I do think that things are wrong, but I, we can have a positive effect. We can fix it. But we don’t control the rate, the flow, the time, the outcome. We can make things better, but we can’t change them.
The Art for Today is: Perspective
The Art of the Day is: the Art of Knowing when to Stop...The good news is I am traveling to Pennsylvania and it takes me less time to get halfway there than I expected.
The bad news is it will take several phone calls and much cajoling to cancel a room reservation, and make a different one several hours up(down) the road.
Just to make it more interesting, there are two possible destinations, and from where I am, two different directions to head out in, so I would end up in one place if I got tired heading out one way, and a different place if I headed out in the other direction.
So, I get to the first hotel early. I mapquest and google around to see where and when I might end up where. I call the hotel chain to ask about other reservations, cancellation policies etc. and this very reasonable woman at the call center very surprisingly says she can't answer my question, and doesn't know the number I should call.
Now I have a headache. Now the fact that I've already driven 5 hours straight sinks in, and I don't want to figure anything out, and I don't want to do anything but shut my eyes. And that is how I came to spend the night in Chester.
The Art of the Day is: the Art of Cultivating Friendships
Friendships need to be cultivated, grown, pruned, fed, not overly fussed with, but given the proper attention. Then, of course there are some people who just have a green thumb.
The Art of the Day is: the Art of Time Management
This came from David Seah:
What is your Perfect Major? And these are my results. The more things change, the more they stay the same. More power to the Red Queen. I scored as Art. I should be an Art major! How bohemian! (their comment, not mine) Art 100% Mathematics 92% Linguistics 83% Theater 83% Sociology 83% Philosophy83% Dance 83% Psychology 83% Engineering 75% English 75% Journalism 67% Anthropology 67% Chemistry 58% Biology 50% I admit that when I took the quiz, I was feeling benevolent, nostalgic, and "too full of the milk of humankindness". Art should be able to solve all the problems of the world! So where is this Math score coming from? I didn't think my thoughts were that orderly. BTW Happy Birthday to me. Thanks Mom and Dad, wherever you are. The Art of the Day is: the Art of self acceptance.
The Art of the Day is: the Art of Flying Solo
What I'm trying to say isPeople who insist upon speaking metaphorically ought to be willing to explain themselves to people who don't. The tricky part comes when people sometimes get it, and sometimes don't.My mother and my sister would try to finish sentences for me when I was searching for the right word. What is the right word? A Goldielocks word, neither too hard or too soft, too hot or too cool. Just right. Words have power. I must have learned that early. Rumplestiltskin and the Golem (Rumplestiltskin was defeated when the princess learned his name, the Golem came to life when Rabbi Loeb placed the name of God in his mouth).And I'm also guilty of not speaking out, of saying too little, of trying to do all the thinking in my head and not talking it out, and being impatient with people who do think aloud.'Nuf said. for now.The Art of the Day is: The Art of Verbal Clarification.
The Art of the Day is: the Art of Riding EmotionsI was watching a bit of the Winter Olympics, and it occurred to me that emotionally I was doing a Snowboard X. Navigating highs and lows, and bumps and landings at great speed. The object is to stay on your feet. The object is to keep agile. And yeah, it involves an element of fearlessness, and skills learned by practice. And it didn't escape me that it was a race to the bottom, but that's where all the people were.
Students discover art teacher's body
Feb 17, 2006 — A popular and longtime teacher at West York Area High School shot and killed himself overnight in his classroom, where his students found him Thursday morning.
A small handgun and a suicide note were found next to his body.
I danced at his wedding. I ate at his table. I was and am friends with his wife since before they were married.
He was a quirky guy, she was a quirky girl. They built a life together. They supported each other. She believes he did this to spare her more grief, later. She also believes that he was not thinking rationally. I believe she’s right, and I’m also mad at him, and God, and the fates.
“Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem” ---Who wrote that?
There is so much pharmacology out there, that it surprises me that people can get depressed to that stage, and yet, I can think of 2 suicides I knew personally, and three or so more that have affected me or people I love. A disturbance in the Force. Just in case you thought things were going pretty well, let me present you once again with your mortality. Like a cold wind.
The Art of the Day is: Compassion
The Art of the Day is: The Art of Verbal Self DefenceThis was the art of the day that started it all. It was a book that was recommended to me (which is now not even listed at Amazon), and now I can't remember why I needed it.I know there was a period in my life when I was feeling inarticulate, and came to the conclusion anyone who could use inarticulate in a sentence probably wasn't. It comes back to me now. I was working at a college where everyone around me celebrated having a "life of the mind", and I felt like I had none. That what I thought was of no consequence and I was only valued for what I produced, and that product was physical, a tangible thing.Right now I feel like I'm aquiring thoughts and ideas and trying to jettison things (junk, sentimental articles of clothing, papers, duplicates, stuff I've been saving for others). The divesting is slow going, but the ideas are coming quickly. And I'm less defensive.
The Art of the Day is: The Art of Making Nervous People Less Nervous.
Hateful Holidays
Well, it’s coming on to Valentine’s Day, so of course I’ve been thinking about grand and miserable Valentine’s Days past, and listening to Louis Armstrong CD’s. “Give me a kiss to build a dream on, and my imagination will thrive upon that kiss.” “As time goes by” “How long has this been going on?”
Valentine’s Day is one of those holidays you love to hate, because as one of the less popular and pretty kids, you always got the ugly, stupid valentines that were the dregs of the pack. Or you only got candy from your father. Or you never had your secret Valentine acknowledged. Or you never were seeing anyone around Valentines day, and if you were they were out of town.
Guilt producing holidays, up there with New Years Eve (no date), and for me, Halloween (can I borrow this costume? last minute), because you were supposed to do something, or have something, that didn’t happen.
Don’t get me wrong. I am romantic. I just can’t, won’t get all hepped up around a manufactured day. When running with a crowd, I’m usually at the back of the pack, if not totally on the sidelines.
I resent overpriced roses, and the guilt over breaking my diet takes all the allure out of chocolates.
One memory of Valentine’s day past was working in a florist’s while in College, and cleaning boxes and boxes of roses, and going home exhausted with thorn ripped hands. How romantic is that?
I do have a favorite Valentine’s day poem:
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.
Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note;
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape,
And thy fair virtues force, perforce,
Doeth move me to say, ah, to swear
I love thee.
Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Titania to Bottom (who has just been turned into an ass).The Art of the Day is: the romantic art of courtship.
Snow.I am staring out a glass curtain wall at the city in a snowstorm. It is strangely quiet, even though the snow is blowing at a pretty good clip. I'm here for now, and have pretty much decided to wait until tomorrow to drive to the next city, three and a half hours away in regular conditions. Better allow four and a half. It's probably a good thing that I decided not to fly, as the airport is closed for sure, and there aren't that many flights from here to there. I'm tired. I watched the weather reports late into last night, and then worried about it. Like I could do anything about it? I already had three alternatives for the folks who were taking the seminar.Some stayed last night before the storm, some are here today, and some will go to the next venue and pick up the last session. I called the home office to let them know everything was OK. Hurry up and wait, and watch the snow pile up. This is the kind of day that sent Alice through the looking glass.The art of the Day is: The Art of Back -up Planning
What do you do? Who are you?
Recently, a friend described me as “A Costume Designer / Bar Exam Trainer”, which is true, as far as it goes, but not the way I want to be described.
I was a costume designer. I was “in theatre”, and I still refer to things as a theatre person might. Example: I recently said I was not intimidated by celebrities, because I could guess their inseams. I spent a long time getting out of theatre, describing it as an amicable divorce. I wish it well, I just don’t want to live with it anymore.
I currently work as a Bar Exam Trainer. I promote, proctor and facilitate a course that prepares students who have finished law school prepare for the Bar. I fell into it. I’m reasonably good at it (nervous lawyers are less demanding than nervous actors), but it’s not how I define myself.
What do I want to be?
(Why is this question so hard and so important?)
A while ago I wanted to be a webmaster. It was up there with wanting to be a rock star.
They made magic.
I had friends who encouraged me and let me know it wasn’t an unattainable goal (note the double negative, that’s what I learn hanging out with lawyers). I took courses, I learned that some of it came easily to me, and some did not.
It was less magical and more logical.
Which is OK, but not as sexy.
What I want is to make magic.
In costuming the big payoff was making theatre magic. There were a lot of boring hems and alterations along the way, but every once in a while two and two equaled 5.
Facilitating a Bar course isn’t magic. I’m appreciated. It’s a damn good course, but it’s not my course. I do it so I can afford to do other things. It is a means to an end. It is a job, not a career or a calling.
OK. That’s important. That’s the self definition piece that I need to answer.
I seem pretty clear on what I am not, so I need to put a positive spin on it. I’ve lost some identities along the way, but I’m not so unique in that. It’s not like I haven’t had time to heal, or take the time I need.
I’ve spent some time convincing myself I was an artist. There are some people in the world who know me as an artist, and I’m pleased by that. I’m comfortable defining myself as a designer, because I believe that design is working within parameters, and I am comfortable with that. So I guess I’m balking at the costume part of costume designer. It’s been a while since I’ve done any costume designing, and although most of it comes back like remembering how to ride a bike, I’m out of practice, and I’d feel rusty.
It is especially uncomfortable to be called a costume designer in a group of new media artists, because costume design is so nineteenth century. It hasn’t changed radically since the invention of the sewing machine, and even before that is recognizable as clothing in the service of a production or specific event.
Maybe I would be more comfortable referred to as a Historian. Maybe anyone who reaches a certain age should be referred to as a Historian.
A collector of magic. A relic collector.
It’s in there. It’s a part of what I do. It’s part of what I bring to the table.
Or am I an educator? That’s there too.
Not for nothing there is a feminist edge here too. There is something about being a costume designer, or teacher that’s “safe”. They can be seen as traditionally female occupations. It chaffs. Just when I was beginning to be comfortable with another layer of my feminism, someone yanks at the corset strings, but that’s a story for another day. The Art for the Day is: Being yourself, it's who you do best.
Sleeping in Hotels
In the past 10 years I’ve gone from almost never (count on one hand how many times) to a Platinum Club member.
I still feel guilty that a three night stay in a hotel is more expensive than my first apartment.
I am a middle tier hotel patron. I like to be able to walk around in shorts, t shirts, and sandals late into the fall. I am uncomfortable when the person at the front desk’s makeup is better than mine will ever be. I like attention, but not too much.
I am wary of valet parking, but will use it if I’m downtown in a city.
I’ve learned that tipping well early is really worth doing. I hate myself when on the last day I’m there; I tip the bellman, who is not the same guy who has been helping me all week.
I hate mini-bars. They are expensive and seductive. I have been ignoring them, it helps that I don’t drink. I’ve known people who have become active alcoholics on the road. Shades of Willy Loemann.
I also hate pay for service internet access. If I were stuck in an airport in a snowstorm I would consider buying into a service, but I appreciate free access. I don’t like extra fees.
I almost always empty my travel bags into the dresser or drawers provided, and hang up pants and jackets in the closet. (I don’t always do that at home, go figure.) Sometimes I do it because I’m concerned about wrinkles, but that doesn’t explain socks and underwear. I think it’s something my mother did the few times I stayed in a hotel room with her.
I have a habit of sleeping with my head at the foot of the bed, or diagonally across the bed. I do this at home too, when I’m having trouble falling asleep. I guess I’m assuming I’ll have trouble falling asleep in a strange room, so I do it in anticipation of trouble, prophilactically.
I read the brochures and information packages in the room. I check out the restaurant, art supply, and fabric store listing in the Yellow Pages in a town I don’t know well.
I try not to use room service. I prefer to bring things in from outside, or even better, arrange to have dinner with a friend if I have one in the town I’m staying in.
If I’m driving from place to place, I overpack outrageously. If I’m flying I can do better.
The Art of the Day is: The art of Urban Camping
The Art of the Day is: Marksmanship, the art of hitting the mark.
"Stories are content; storytelling is relationship.Stories are tools for knowing and judging.Change the stories, and you change how people live." Brenda Laurel Utopian Entrepreneur 2001The Art of the Day is:the art of accepting criticism or praise with equanimity.
Process
Getting things done
Getting things done well
Getting things partway and getting stuck
Getting stuck and trying to get unstuck
Refocusing
Trying to get things done
Bitching about trying to get things done
Doing something else just to get something done
Making a list of things that need to be done
Prioritizing the list
Doing the easy things on the list to get something done
Doing the things others expect to be done
Feed the cat
Listen to the news
Sleep
Wake
Start again from the top
Find the solvent to get unstuck
Redefine some of the mundane things as easy things
Put myself on the list of people who expect something of meThe Art of the Day is: the art of treating yourself like your own best friend
What Hands Say
A friend of mine got his first manicure (personal hand detailing) this past week, and was telling me all about it. I told him that I had noticed that his nails were buffed. I also told him that I had noticed his hands before, and that his nails had been uneven.
We got into a conversation about detailing, what people notice, and what people are oblivious to. Some people don’t notice their hands until they see them in a photograph.
Some people hide their hands in their pockets.
I have always noticed hands, not unlike the way some people notice legs, or eyes, or other body parts. Hands can be sexy. I notice people’s hands to get a handle (hand –le, get it?) on what people do, who or what they are in the world.
I notice if the fingers are long or short, if the skin is soft or callused, clean or dirty, strong or graceful. But as I’m thinking about it, I am also very interested in the way people communicate with their hands. How they gesture when they’re talking, how they emphasize things with hand movements.
There are people who say if you tied his hands, so-and-so couldn’t talk. I may be one of those people. Check and see if you gesture while you are on the telephone. That might be a good indicator that speech and gesture are strongly linked for you. Think about how candidates are coached before debates to use hand movements to their advantage.
Maybe some of my ‘hand fetish’ has to do with working with my hands. I enjoy making things. Painting, drawing, writing are examples of more ways that hands communicate.
Also, some hand gestures must be cultural, think about the difference between a South Asian dancer’s hand position and a ballet dancer’s, or shaking hands vs. bowing with hands together. Some gestures are instinctive (pounding a fist in frustration?) and there are male to female differences in how a person rests his/her hands on the back of a chair, for example.
Hands and Touch
“Ay, there’s the rub” – Hamlet
Back to my friend’s hand detailing. He was surprised that his manicure ended with a hand massage. According to him it was the best part of the whole experience, as he described melting into his chair. Touch is a form of communication unto itself. Hands are both public and private body parts. Some touch, like handshakes, are formal, and not intimate, even though people who are first introduced try to speck each other out by how they shake hands. I’ve practiced shaking hands before an interview. Other touches are downright taboo, unless you are close. Palpably close.
“Palm to palm do holy palmers kiss” Juliet says to Romeo.
“Let lips do what palms do” he replies.
This was one of my favorite lines when I was with a man named Palmer.
He had very good hands.Art for the Day: the art of reading hand signals.
The art of the day is: the art of wishful thinking.
I just had a dream about missing a train somewhere East of Chicago, because I lost my cat on the way to the West Coast. Actually I left my cat on the train as I was changing trains because I had too much baggage, including eight shoeboxes, and the cat was deaf, so he didn't hear me when I called (he used to come when I called). I've had recurrent travel dreams lately. I wake up tired, and having gone nowhere. Maybe.The art for the day is: the art of packing light.
The impetus (where's the spell check?) for this blog is David Seah's encouragement, and Ben Dreyfus's link to Mah Rabu. I don't know where it will go. I do know from time to time there will be definitions of words that resonate, the Art of the Day (because every day should be lived like an art), pictures, questions, and hmm, yes, opinions.
So I'll begin by telling you why this blog is called Red Queen Day.
It's because in Lewis Carroll's
Through the Looking Glass , the Red Queen says
"It takes all the running you can do to stay in the same place",
and I can relate to that.
