At times, our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.
Albert Schweitzer
I’m a day early to say –
Hey Brother – Happy Birthday!
Bon Voyage to Aaron and Lisa, Matt and Kelly! Safe and happy travels to you all…
Tags: Quoting
Ceci n’est pas une pipe. Do you know that painting by Magritte? Well, it’s kind of in alignment with today’s post, as it really isn’t about pitas, though I did make them today, from, you guessed it, the book pictured above. I love home baked bread goods of all kinds, and the way these puff somehow make them even more delicious. Maybe it isn’t steam filling that interior but magic, the kind that you make with your hands. Make your own sometime, and see if you agree. I have a feeling you will.
So to what is not a pipe, but does, figuratively, have to do with the oven. The baby oven. If deciding at the age of eight goes far enough back to be considered never, I have never wanted children. While other girls played with dolls and chirruped excitedly about the day they would become mothers, I did not share their enthusiasm, save for anything but the play. Oh how I loved the play, and, come to think of it, I rarely pretended I was a mother, giving a baby her bottle. I preferred playing grown ups, arranging various blankets and scraps on the floor of my bedroom to serve as a house. I could go on for hours in this fashion (on my own or with any willing party – anyone? Please??) – sending someone off to work, making dinner, getting dressed up for parties. It’s actually a bit like my life now. That’s something interesting, too. Save for the part about me not making money (in my youth, I always thought I would have a successful career, though I didn’t ever imagine myself married, but living with my best friend – which is true, really), my life and house are pretty much as I imagined: I am happy. I travel. I cook. I do what I want. The house is old and has character. Each room is decorated differently. There is art, lots and lots of art.
The part that surprises me is that this decision arrived in a period of relative calm in our household, at least as calm as six loud talkers in a small space can be, anyway. Later, though not terribly so, external forces would add to the laundry list of reasons I needed to confirm that having babies was more problematic than anything:
1. A mentally unbalanced sister who would run away more times than I can remember. Beat anyone who crossed her, including me. Get caught stealing. Get brought home by the police. Get pregnant very young.
2. An equally mentally unbalanced grandmother who would disappear for days only to be found dancing on table tops at a Holiday Inn. Make up lies to send a SWAT team to a perfectly innocent woman’s home. Verbally abuse me for not being complicit in her “lies” (they were real to her).
3. Suffer through my own depression, shame, and heartbreak.
4. Be forced to be an adult by parents doing the best they could.
5. See the “giving birth” film in 10th grade biology. Oh god, that film!
For a while, it was all about the list. I had to defend myself. It had to be more than deciding as an eight year old, even though that’s what it was. I no longer need a list or a reason. I just never wanted to. It seems to me that I should want to have a baby in order to have one. It is not something one tries. Despite what seems to be pretty sound logic, I have been belittled, berated, and called hopelessly selfish, but I don’t and didn’t care. You’re not the boss of me! Besides, I’ve been called worse by people I thought were my friends. And then that day in May of 2009. My junk is no good. It would be a miracle for me to even get pregnant. Seriously?! After eighteen years of condoms? Do you know how much money we could have saved? Such a frugalista!
I owned the decision fully, held it as fiercely as a flag of victory, yet it was never truly my own. God decided long before I did and whispered it on the clouds, in a dream, somewhere, in 1979, saving me the infinite pain of wanting and wondering before the truth. For that and my ever determined nature not to fold under the pressures of society, I am truly grateful. I have seen that sadness and frustration. It has not stopped me from wanting for children, however: their good health, to smell them after spitting up, to ease their cries, to swaddle them in blankets of love, to see their eyes of wonder, and hear their raucous laughter. It’s funny isn’t it? “God plays with us!”
I know, I know, another playlist so soon? What can I say? The cold, wintry weather has me daydreaming of summer, the languorous hours spent on an impossibly hot day, every moment measured and blissfully sweet.
“Beauty and the East” – Bombay Dub Orchestra
“From the Same Hill” – Brian Eno
“Where is My Love” – Cat Power
“Alone Together” – Chet Baker
“Berceuse in D Flat, Op. 57” – Chopin
“True Love Waits” – Christopher O’Reilly
“Appalachian Spring – Very Slowly” – Bernstein conducts Copland
“The Rain Song” – Led Zeppelin
“Pass in Time” – Beth Orton
“The Big Ship” – Brian Eno
“Thai Lullaby” – Stewart Matthewman (Twin Falls Idaho)
“Smile” – Telepopmusik
“Promenade” – U2
“Water From a Vine Leaf” – William Orbit
“Passion” – Peter Gabriel
“Shepland Pony” – Roberto Linderez (My friend! Have a listen here)
“By This River” – Brian Eno
“Sentimental Walk” – Philip Aaberg (Diva)
As per our usual, we watched a slew of movies and television shows via Netflix this past holiday season. Just in case your queue (I love spelling that word) needs a little inspiration, these stand out from the crowd.
Slings and Arrows – In this utterly delightful Canadian television series, watch the behind the scenes drama (sometimes melodrama) at a small town Shakespeare festival after the much heralded artistic director Oliver Welles dies (hit by a ham truck, of all things) and his one time protégé takes the helm. Geoffrey does his best to navigate the often tricky waters of putting on a play – the actors and their idiosyncrasies, the buffoonery of the man in charge, and his personal demons, not to mention Oliver’s ghost, eager to interfere at every turn. Each season is centered around the production of a Shakespearean play, and the drama often follows a similar course. It’s fun, serious, sometimes quite sad, very entertaining, and a great reminder of the genius of Shakespeare. Plus those Canadian accents, sore-ee!
Jason Schwartzman plays Jonathan Ames, a writer, who, in a fit of desperation after his girlfriend leaves him and a lack of motivation to work on his novel (ahem), decides to become an unlicensed private detective in New York City. After all, he’s read plenty of crime novels, so it can’t be that difficult, right? As you might imagine, what ensues is an often madcap and wacky adventure to find lost family members and skateboards, among other things. His sidekicks and good friends are a comic book writer (funny man Zach Galifianakis) and a rather vain and sometimes slimy, yet totally likable magazine editor George (Ted Danson).
A very fascinating look at the life of Genghis Khan before all of that conquering. At this stage in his life he simply is Temudjin: from a boy learning to choose a bride, to an exile and slave. He is honest, loving, fiercely loyal, and decent, despite all that surrounds him. A gorgeous film of determination and perseverance. This is part one of a trilogy, I believe. I am curious to see the transformation.
A taut thriller, it had my stomach in knots. Jackie is a CCTV observer in Glasgow, every day watching over the same small sliver of the city, getting to know its inhabitants and protecting them from crime. Then one day, she sees a man she wasn’t expecting, one part of a tragic past, though we don’t know exactly. She begins to follow him, to accomplish who knows what, and we’re along for the scary ride.
Imagine how different your childhood would be if you lived in an old folk’s home: parents more keen on taking care of the aged than you, difficulty talking with people your own age, a near pathological obsession with death and the afterlife, and a mad desire for normalcy and a space of your own. This is Edward’s (Bill Milner – also great in Son of Rambow) existence until Clarence (the brilliant Michael Caine) comes along and teaches him a thing or two about living, magic, love, and loss.
A strange look at the world were it possible to have your soul removed, the 95% of it not critical to existence, anyway. Paul Giamatti plays himself, an actor overwrought with his latest role. In a desperate act to ease his burden, he decides to extract his soul for a few weeks, just to take the edge off. Unfortunately, it gets stolen, and what ensues is a rather complicated journey into his own life and marriage, the soul of the woman he’s taken in the meantime, and a cold Russian winter.
The not always funny but nearly always entertaining life of the comedienne and workaholic of the first degree, neuroses and insecurities front and center. I hope to have half of her energy and drive at seventy-five!
Jeff Johnson, a man inspired by the epic 1968 South American adventure of Yvon Chouinard and Doug Tompkins (the founders of Patagonia and the North Face, respectively) finds himself traveling south in the same spirit. Sailing, surfing, and climbing his way through dilemmas personal, environmental, and technical, it is a visually stunning, interesting and thoughtful look at the ways we find fulfillment and redemption, the degradation of the planet, and our desire for more.
Tags: Movies
Music, perspective, architecture, etc. Embroider time, embroider space.
Joseph Joubert
I don’t normally add my own thoughts to the quotations, but this idea struck me so deeply that I felt compelled to put it down on paper (albeit figuratively). Perhaps it is my profound love for music and architecture. I am constantly inspired by the pleasing and sometimes discordant lines of objects, trees, and buildings, equally so by the sounds associated with them. It need not be composed, either. I love hearing the echo of footsteps in a long corridor, the sound of laughter, birdsong, or a whisper in a revered space. I love that years later they resonate with me, sometimes a mere spark of a note, or a glimpse brings me to that spot embroidered on my heart so long ago. The stitches may have faded and frayed beyond recognition, but something of it remains: one of the purest forms of pleasure.
Tags: Quoting
