I'm on a roller coaster.
The roller coaster in my repetitive dream about the old/sad/abandoned carnival.
It's the only recurring theme in my dreams.
And this carnival is smudgy, oily, creaky, dark and scary.
(actually, it's closed down)
Have I posted about this before?
Oh. And it's cold.
And the roller coaster is actually an El train.
Hi.
I'm upset.
I can't remember certain details about my childhood kitchen.
But, when I tape all of these photos together, the result is almost a kitchen.
A skewed, multi-perspective, nearly round image of my childhood kitchen.
Why on earth am I doing this?
I don't know.
I guess I'm feeling sentimental.
Mostly, I love it when I can't remember something. And there are serious gaps in my memory about my childhood kitchen.
It was in a shot gun two-flat that my family lived in for sixty years.
I was six years old when we moved away.
Today, I drew a floor plan of it (finally) thinking this might jog my memory.
In doing so, I relied heavily on the fact that things like door ways, bathtubs, and bed sizes are standard.
But mostly I relied on memory.
Of course, my brain was reluctant to produce such a memory.
My brain - it's always busy or preoccupied.
(or powering down)
I've noticed that when I appeal directly to my psyche, I can side-step my brain's usual excuses.
I just tell my psyche that it's important.
And my psyche believes it.
My psyche!
So dumb. So literal.
It never registers sarcasm (which might explain some problems I've been having lately).
Still, this takes some time.
And today was no different.
My psyche said:
one moment please..
thinking
thinking
thinking
..I poured myself a glass of wine..
thinking
..did the dishes..
thinking
..made some split pea soup..
thinking
thinking
..got a phone call from a friend who said she was in serious trouble..
thinking
thinking
..listened sympathetically as she described to me what she had done..
thinking
thinking
..told her she could trust me..
thinking
thinking
..went into a drawer, get out my other cell phone and called the police..
thinking
thinking
thinking
..checked the mail..
thinking
thinking
..watered the ficus..
thinking
thinking
..went to bed..
Memory accessed
Memory complete
Yep. That's pretty much how it goes.
Update: the photo that I lost a few posts ago was found while looking for another photo (also found). Thank you for your concern..
Feb 28, 2008
Feb 23, 2008
who is protecting our forty-somethings?
AOL. That's who.
I just read, What Not To Wear Over Forty!
This article, complete with No-No's, reminded me of the experience I had recently of sorting through hundreds of pieces clothing.
This was at work. These were prop clothes. Things worn once by models of every age.
The closet that was built for these clothes was getting a little cramped.
So, my boss asked me to prepare half of the clothes for charity.
I spent about a week sorting through everything.
As I organized what we were keeping, there were many instances where I couldn't determine whether an item was meant for a woman or a child.
Which is funny. I recall the distinct difference between my clothes and my mother's clothes when I was twelve years old.
So, I'm sure some of the prop clothes got put back in the wrong place.
Because women, tweens, and their younger sisters are all now dressing in a similar fashion.
From the world of design (that world which dictates what is available in the stores) I imagine a collective, resounding, almost snickering, who cares!
Well, AOL cares.
Deeply. About forty-somethings.
Because,
What Not To Wear Under Eighteen!
Complete with No-No's (a term better reserved for those under eighteen, anyway) is something I have yet to see on AOL.
AOL? I wonder, aren't the implications of a teenager dressing too old for her age at least as serious as, say, those of a woman in her forties dressing too young for her age?
Isn't one actually dangerous, while the other merely embarrassing (at least in your estimation)?
PS: belly-shirts looked bad on everyone.
While they were in style (were, AOL, were - they've been out of style for some time now) I kept having to invent new ways to cover my midriff.
I was in good shape. I just didn't find it attractive.
I wonder, exactly what age group were belly-shirts intended for, anyway?
Twenty-somethings hated them. Thirty-somethings hated them.
Oh, that's right. Belly-shirts looked good on teen-aged girls.
But, that can't be right.
I mean, no one wanted teen-aged girls to wear revealing clothes, did they?
Certainly no one at AOL wanted teen-aged girls to wear revealing clothes.
Because that would be a No-No, wouldn't it?
I'm sure your cracker-jack team of fashion editors remembers how wearing three shirts at a time became a style as a result (of every woman everywhere trying desperately to cover her midriff).
Victims of fashion? Definitely. Because a long shirt could not be found anywhere.
Yes, I am forty. Interesting you should ask.
No, I haven't changed the way I dress.
I know that worries you, AOL.
And if you're reading this, you might feel compelled to publish more articles in order to build awareness (vulnerable as forty-somethings can be in this modern world).
And it's timely (because, seriously, who is protecting our forty-somethings other than AOL?)
But, you see, I don't need to adjust anything. As it happens, I'm still a grown woman. And the last time I checked, the clothing that I wear (that no doubt your daughters are wearing) were designed for grown women.
Seriously, AOL, I'm forty. I can do whatever I want.
I just read, What Not To Wear Over Forty!
This article, complete with No-No's, reminded me of the experience I had recently of sorting through hundreds of pieces clothing.
This was at work. These were prop clothes. Things worn once by models of every age.
The closet that was built for these clothes was getting a little cramped.
So, my boss asked me to prepare half of the clothes for charity.
I spent about a week sorting through everything.
As I organized what we were keeping, there were many instances where I couldn't determine whether an item was meant for a woman or a child.
Which is funny. I recall the distinct difference between my clothes and my mother's clothes when I was twelve years old.
So, I'm sure some of the prop clothes got put back in the wrong place.
Because women, tweens, and their younger sisters are all now dressing in a similar fashion.
From the world of design (that world which dictates what is available in the stores) I imagine a collective, resounding, almost snickering, who cares!
Well, AOL cares.
Deeply. About forty-somethings.
Because,
What Not To Wear Under Eighteen!
Complete with No-No's (a term better reserved for those under eighteen, anyway) is something I have yet to see on AOL.
AOL? I wonder, aren't the implications of a teenager dressing too old for her age at least as serious as, say, those of a woman in her forties dressing too young for her age?
Isn't one actually dangerous, while the other merely embarrassing (at least in your estimation)?
PS: belly-shirts looked bad on everyone.
While they were in style (were, AOL, were - they've been out of style for some time now) I kept having to invent new ways to cover my midriff.
I was in good shape. I just didn't find it attractive.
I wonder, exactly what age group were belly-shirts intended for, anyway?
Twenty-somethings hated them. Thirty-somethings hated them.
Oh, that's right. Belly-shirts looked good on teen-aged girls.
But, that can't be right.
I mean, no one wanted teen-aged girls to wear revealing clothes, did they?
Certainly no one at AOL wanted teen-aged girls to wear revealing clothes.
Because that would be a No-No, wouldn't it?
I'm sure your cracker-jack team of fashion editors remembers how wearing three shirts at a time became a style as a result (of every woman everywhere trying desperately to cover her midriff).
Victims of fashion? Definitely. Because a long shirt could not be found anywhere.
Yes, I am forty. Interesting you should ask.
No, I haven't changed the way I dress.
I know that worries you, AOL.
And if you're reading this, you might feel compelled to publish more articles in order to build awareness (vulnerable as forty-somethings can be in this modern world).
And it's timely (because, seriously, who is protecting our forty-somethings other than AOL?)
But, you see, I don't need to adjust anything. As it happens, I'm still a grown woman. And the last time I checked, the clothing that I wear (that no doubt your daughters are wearing) were designed for grown women.
Seriously, AOL, I'm forty. I can do whatever I want.
Feb 21, 2008
this is your building
It's funny.
Just now I was walking past my old building.
I didn't move very far away. I can see my old building from my living room right now.
Usually I forget all about it. My old building.
Even (especially) when I'm spacing out. Like when I'm having coffee in the morning.
Actually, I catch myself looking at my old building all the time.
I just slowly I realize that my mind has wandered. That I've been looking at my old building.
At the very windows that were once my windows.
At the very door that once was my front door.
Where I used to live.
So weird. Not weird enough.
Like part of me still lives there. Yet I behave like I never lived there at all.
How did this happen?
Sometimes I see the hippies that were once my downstairs neighbors. Usually early in the morning, as I stand out front and wait for my ride to work.
I see them standing out front - waiting for their rides to work.
And we never acknowledge each other.
With less than a hundred feet between us. As we wait for our repective rides. In the cold. In the snow.
Yes. We see each other.
But, it's just enough distance to ignore each other.
No I never really hated you. You got me out of jams. I got you out of jams.
I gave you some metal shelves. That one time.
And you were nice enough to come out when I fell down the entire flight of stairs.
That was embarassing.
Most of all, you gave me the landlord's cell phone number.
That was big. My furnace had broken and it was a holiday weekend.
The cell phone number. I'll never foget that.
Yes.
You were ok. I was ok.
But in the end, you rejected my request to use of your composte heap.
Which was weird. For hippies, I mean.
(and I would have followed all the composte rules to the T, too, you have no idea)
Then I caught you folding my laundry that famous day (later, in my post about you folding my laundry, I would change the ending for comic effect, but it turns out that life is never as funny as blog posts about said life).
As a result, I did not agree to babysit your millions of cats when you went out of town.
Fair enough.
We were neighbors.
We are neighbors. Forever, it seems.
Just now I was walking past my old building.
I didn't move very far away. I can see my old building from my living room right now.
Usually I forget all about it. My old building.
Even (especially) when I'm spacing out. Like when I'm having coffee in the morning.
Actually, I catch myself looking at my old building all the time.
I just slowly I realize that my mind has wandered. That I've been looking at my old building.
At the very windows that were once my windows.
At the very door that once was my front door.
Where I used to live.
So weird. Not weird enough.
Like part of me still lives there. Yet I behave like I never lived there at all.
How did this happen?
Sometimes I see the hippies that were once my downstairs neighbors. Usually early in the morning, as I stand out front and wait for my ride to work.
I see them standing out front - waiting for their rides to work.
And we never acknowledge each other.
With less than a hundred feet between us. As we wait for our repective rides. In the cold. In the snow.
Yes. We see each other.
But, it's just enough distance to ignore each other.
No I never really hated you. You got me out of jams. I got you out of jams.
I gave you some metal shelves. That one time.
And you were nice enough to come out when I fell down the entire flight of stairs.
That was embarassing.
Most of all, you gave me the landlord's cell phone number.
That was big. My furnace had broken and it was a holiday weekend.
The cell phone number. I'll never foget that.
Yes.
You were ok. I was ok.
But in the end, you rejected my request to use of your composte heap.
Which was weird. For hippies, I mean.
(and I would have followed all the composte rules to the T, too, you have no idea)
Then I caught you folding my laundry that famous day (later, in my post about you folding my laundry, I would change the ending for comic effect, but it turns out that life is never as funny as blog posts about said life).
As a result, I did not agree to babysit your millions of cats when you went out of town.
Fair enough.
We were neighbors.
We are neighbors. Forever, it seems.
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