Sunday, June 23, 2013

Limbic Health List

I’ve been talking with a friend about limbic health lately.  I have a goal of being solidly on the half-full side of the line every single day.  Do less weeping (or, as Ms. Moon says, "motherfucking crying") and more laughing.  There’s a list on the internet, but it has things that seem unnecessary, like "wear a helmet".  I can’t remember the last time I took my helmet off.  Right?  You guys are wearing head protection, true?  
Anyway, here’s my list.  
  1. Bring flowers inside.
  2. Deadhead flowers in the garden so it doesn’t look like an abandoned graveyard the minute the columbines are done.
  3. Speaking of cemetaries, visit some of my favorites.  Maybe even that one by Lake Quinault near the old growth forest with Pacific rhododendron scattered about looking cheery.
  4. Listen to Wagon Wheel. A lot.  
  5. Laminate more lyrics for the shower so I can learn songs while I wash my hair.
  6. Burn incense.  Buy it from that really nice guy on the Ave.
  7. Clean the window next to my bed so that when I wake up I’m not already faced with the alarming and disappointing fact of entropy.  Wake up as if everything’s not falling apart at a rapid clip.
  8. Close drawers and doors after myself.  I know.  That shouldn't have to be on a list.  But I’m that person, the one who opens doors but doesn’t close them because I might need to go back outside/into that drawer/cupboard, whatever, soon.  As if opening a cupboard or closing a door is hard.  Behave as if I have the capacity to open the door as many times as I need to.  
  9. Hang out with lovely fun people who are interested in things.
    That bright spot is the lantern, carrying
    messages up to high far away places.  And of
    course, the other big orb is the super moon.
    (Photo courtesy of Erin)
  10. Release hot air lanterns with messages to the universe.  I'd like to confess right here that watching the glowing rice paper orb float up into the sky, propelled only by burning lard, just as the super moon began to peek through the clouds, is possibly the best thing I’ve done in a long time.  Thank you for including me, lovely people.
  11. Figure out if there really is a painting that I remember seeing, a commentary on Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, but with one nude woman picnicking in the midst of it all.  Did I make that up?  Was it a dream?
  12. Actually listen to the birds when they sing.  Oh, and The Byrds too.
  13. Figure out where I heard stuff.  Did I really listen to a whole podcast about processing baby carrots?  Or was that a dream?  It's better than the other dream, the one where JJ has only ten minutes to live because of a giant gash at the top of his head, and I keep misdialling when trying to call 9-1-1.  
  14. Stop dreaming that.
  15. Watch the movie that my customer, the one who built this treehouse, recommended: Wings of Life.
    Permits?  Who needs a stinkin' permit?
    It's only a treehouse!
    Source:  This blog
  16. Give more gifts to friends and loved ones for no apparent reason.
  17. Create more friends and loved ones.
  18. Make a treasure hunt for adults.  (I don’t mean that in an “adult treasure hunt", like x-rated” way.  But the sort of hunt where you need resources: a car and a tiny amount of cash.  And perhaps a flashlight.)
  19. Have a picnic that involves a picnic table and a table cloth and perhaps salt and pepper shakers.  Oh, and food.  Abundant good food.
  20. Go crabbing in about 11 days, not that I’m counting.  
  21. Learn to make excellent crab cakes like the ones at Lowells.
  22. Get proficient at Astavakra, although, as S. says, “It’s just a fucking pose.”
  23. Cook more feasts and never be cheap about cheese or other ingredients.  In fact, just never be cheap about anything.
  24. Get bees again.  Next year.
  25. Appreciate every quirky thing about this town.  Even the fact that we're always dropping pianos from the sky for no apparent reason.
  26. Figure out which things are traditions that I do every year, and which things are random, so I don't always have to ask.  E.g., "Hey, do we run for the pies every year, starting last year, or is that just one time thing?"
  27. Get genetic testing, not to learn my health future, but to discover where my people came from and if I’m related to Gengis Khan.  If they accidentally send my health future, try not to look, because the last thing I need to know is that I’m going to get hit by a bus next week.  Someone clarified that this would be a genotype, not a fortune cookie, but I still think it’s possible that I descend from the sort who get hit by a bus.  That wouldn’t be so terrible except that it means my kids could die first, which would be unbearable.  
  28. Swim in our little lake every day, even if it's cloudy and cold and doesn't look like a good swimming day.  Because every day is a good swimming day.
  29. Do as much yoga as this lifetime allows.


Monday, June 17, 2013

Adieu, gum wall

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  So, the gum wall was removed.  Well, the wall is still there, but the gum is gone.  Disappointing.  I'm trying to summon all of the compassion I can for the poor guy who doesn't appreciate it when an actual attraction happens in his very own alley.  Removing a gum wall is not unlike book burning, wouldn't you agree?  So, he's obviously living in his own kind of hell.  A butterfly lands on his nose and he swats it with a billy club.  Wrong in so many ways. Aries, summon compassion where you can this week, even when it's hard.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  My mom recommended a movie to me recently, Stone Reader, which is by a guy who loved the book "The Stones of Summer," and created a documentary about hunting down the author.
"Oh," I said, "maybe I'll read the book first."
"Don't do that," my mom replied.  "You'll spoil the movie."

Is that a real thing, Taurus?  Spoiling a movie by reading the book?  I fell asleep watching it a few times, so I guess I spoiled it in my own way.  It was slow in an okay way, which is precisely how your week will be.  I'd tell you more, but I don't want to spoil it.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  Someone recently told me that I'm pretty awkward.  I know!  This is not news.  But it started me wondering how non-awkward people behave, and in particular, what they talk about.  I get the, "hi!" part.  But after that, I'd prefer to talk about causes for Neanderthal extinction or colony collapse disorder, which isn't always what the other humans are interested in.  But I spent an evening this week with someone who spent a good deal of time talking about medical issues with his testicles.  I was curious and fascinated for a while, but after a long time, maybe 45 minutes, I wanted to say, "I'm not exactly sure where you're going with this, but my interest in your testicles was minimal to begin with, has vanished entirely."  I think if it's not already written down, there should be a rule, or at least a guideline:  No one will ever be as interested in your testicles as you.

The small town, tasteful gum wall before it was removed
Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Seriously, who would take down a gum wall?


The garish unhygenic gum wall in Seattle

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Speaking of sad things, here's something.  This woman is conducting an experiment in which she is "living on light" which is another term for starving herself to death.  On camera.  Her idea is that we would free up so much time and resources if we didn't need to eat.  Right?  How does one get to be 65 and think, even for a minute, that the humans don't need food?   It's one of the saddest things ever.  She thinks this "experiment" can last for 4 - 6 months.  She announces her weight and girth in each video, and I just want to say, Hello!  You see the trajectory here, right?  THIS IS NOT SUSTAINABLE.  Science, people!  There are some things we already know, and one of them is that food is a basic human need.  Leo, don't forget that this week.  Eat well.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Speaking of food, I had my third breakfast yesterday with some lovely people (because it's such a great meal, you should partake as much as possible.  Oh, and Rule Number 6:  When invited to eat with other humans, always say yes.).  Among other things, we talked about someone's visit to a nudist colony.  One of the images I was left with, and I'm sorry to pass it on to you, but pendulous breasts resting on the dinner table right next to a pan of lasagna.  Virgo, for that and other reasons (like the climate) I wouldn't recommend you join a colony just yet.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):   I went to a wedding recently, and among the vows the couple exchanged were, "I will not be subject to disappointment."  I don't know what that means, or how to pull that off.  I will not be subject to gravity, myself, but it's not going so well.  Libra, act well through the disappointment.  This week will give you lots of practice.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I'm not a big follower of the Miss America pageant for the obvious reasons.  Like, for example, what does a bathing suit have to do with anything?  Oy.  But I did watch the clip this morning of Miss Utah.  It is painful.  That woman, my dear readers, was deemed the third most worthy of the pack, and awarded a $15,000 scholarship.  Which proves once again that just showing up with a ton of eye make-up is really all it takes.  Cleavage helps too, I think.


Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  When B. got laid off from the job we both used to do, he said, "You know what this is like?  It's like you were dating a mean fat girl, and she broke up with you!.  And you're bummed about it, because you'd like to keep going out with her."
I had the occasion to text B. this week:  "Booty call from mean fat girl.  I said yes.  Try not to judge."  So, at least there will be some material.  Bad for the soul, good for the blog.  Your week, though, Sag, will be good for the soul.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  There's a robin nesting outside my kitchen door, but there's something off about it.  There's only one bird, and she flies up every time I go out that door, which I try not to do too much.  But I forget, and I feel bad about it, because there she goes, flying up, wasting calories on flight when she should be sitting on eggs.  And I'm not here to judge, but I've never seen or heard any babies, and I've never seen shells on the ground, and I've never seen her fly back with a worm in her mouth or anything.  She's been doing this for about 3 months now.  I believe it's a hysterical pregnancy.  There's something about it that makes me sad, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.  Your week, Capricorn, will be nothing like that.  Happy happy happy all the time.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Speaking of material, The Great Sandini asked to talk to me when I went back to the office.  We go into this giant conference room with a table that seats 30 people.  "Do you think this room will be big enough?" I asked.  "Yes," was all he said.
He starts shuffling papers nervously, the way he does, and showed me this multi-page spreadsheet of all the work that hasn't been done,.  Anyway, I was trying to pay attention, I truly was, but I was distracted by the fact that he had a bandaid around the middle joint on each of his fingers.  I stared at his hand instead of taking the tour of the spreadsheet with him.  I got the gist -- we've been tracking the work but not doing it -- and now you're here to actually do the work; let's see if we can change some of the red cells to green.  (Do I sound bitter?)
"Where you in a fight?" I finally asked?
"Yes.  With an angry, machete wielding woman.  My wife."
I decided to stop asking questions at that point, and just focus on making the red cells turn green.  Stay away from angry machete wielding people this week, Aquarius.  Try not to marry them (if you have a choice).

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  One of the problems in Washington State these days is that the weed sniffing dogs are unemployed or in a retraining program where they learn other useful stuff, like "grab robber's pants" and so on.  Pisces, once again, you get gyped on the horoscopes.  I didn't really have many ideas to begin with, but I was trying to just show up the way Chuck Close recommends.  Do that yourself this week!  Oh wait.  I thought of something.  I was in Seattle last week, and a woman I didn't know came winding her way through a throng of people, directly toward me.  "Do you know where the gum wall is?" she asked.  I know!!  Of all the people she could have asked.  Like I exude some gum wall vibe, which I won't think too hard about.  I escorted her directly to the wall, wandering our way through the crowds, and she gave me a piece of gum for my trouble.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Horoscopes: The Small Town, We're All Gonna Die Edition


Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  Today is the annual parade, which, against my better judgment, causes me to weep, because it's so extremely hokey that it comes around and turns into one of those ridiculous stands of good cheer that is just lovely.  What gets me is this:  half of the town walks down the middle of the main street with a group, essentially saying, "Look!  I'm in a group, and I'm really proud of it!"  And the other half stands on the side and waves, which says, "I see you!  I see that you're in a group!  I'm waving at you and your group!  March on, You!"  How crazy is that?  But it's like everyone is just flipping mortality the bird, saying, dammit, we know we don't have much time.  And this is how we're going to spend it, by god.  It's incredibly sweet and I can hardly even type about it because it makes tear up.  March on, Aries.  We see you.  (Not in a creepy way, of course.)

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I was talking to my sister the other day and I told her I want to learn to draw.  The first thing she said, no kidding, is "I guess that's okay if you can't collect clouds."  Right?  How I miss her every day.  Her point is that it's good to look at all the different kinds of clouds and think about them, and that's way easier than drawing and you don't even need a pencil.   But in our area, it's often just one big cloud, so we're forced to draw.  All I draw is Julianne Moore though.  If she were to drop by, she might be a little concerned, seeing her likeness taped up all over the house.  But odds are slim on that, right?  Taurus, let your week be not one big cloud, but lots of collectibles.  Bring a pencil.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  Oh, my dear birthday people.  How to celebrate.  Oh, I know:  with cake!  And a bike ride!  And a picnic!  Right?  Let's do it!  Because the humans have a few things going for them:  1.  opposable thumbs; 2.  Love of cake; 3.  Ability to weep and laugh and yearn and remember each other's birthdays.  Gemini, celebrate all month long.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Every time I sit down to write, I end up googling the Neanderthals and learning something interesting about them.  I don't know why I do that.  Is it another actual disability?  Did you know that at their peak, the Neanderthal population was only 15,000?  What that means, Cancer, is your numbers don't have to be very large in order to make a significant impact 40,000 years later. That's good, right?  But that's not your horoscope!  Here it is:  I have a rice bag that a dear Cancer made for me about 20 years ago, and it's one of my best relationships ever (both with the Cancer and the rice bag).  I've been thinking lately that it would be good to have a whole rice outfit. Some rice pants and a jacket that I could heat in the microwave and slip on after gardening.  Would a puffy, steamy outfit look good with a gin and tonic?  Do these rice-filled pants make my butt look big?  Who cares!!  Maybe something in seersucker?  This might be the idea to doggedly pursue, Cancer.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Speaking of weeping, a friend told me recently that she was sobbing uncontrollably about, well, I guess you could say she was sobbing about the fragile beauty in the world.  Someone looked at her with alarm and said, "Are you okay?"  It was too hard for her to explain at the time, but here's the deal:  first the weeping, and then the wings!  Wing buds, Leo!  When weeping happens, think wing buds!

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Grr.  I had this dream the other night where I got a lucky number, and I tried really hard to remember it because I wanted to give the number to loved ones.  But it was six digits.  I spent the whole night clinging to that number.  (You know the deal:  dreaming I'm a chicken, 643212, now I'm in math class, haven't studied, 643212, now I'm slurry under a table in the library but it's closed and I didn't bring snacks, 643212, now I'm a waitress in a diner at the Jersey shore and a drunk person is throwing up in my station, 643212.  All night long.)  Then I woke up, and poof.  Just like that, the number was gone.  And now I feel skeptical that I fell for it.  Who's ever heard of a lucky number that's in the hundred thousands?  Shouldn't a lucky number be one digit, like six?  Oh Virgo.  You don't even need a lucky number.  Your week will be lucky without some sham of a prop that nearly came to a fake astrologist in an elusive dream.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Last week, the Washington Ghost Society visited the coffee shop and offered to reveal the unwritten history of the building.  I was so excited, and apparently they've researched other buildings in town, and apparently, the place is haunted.  Not too surprising.  My wish, Libra, is that someone with an older house will contact them and have the seance or whatever.  They use actual microphones, that apparently detect noises that the human ear can't hear!  And the ghosts are saying stuff.  Anyway, invite me to the seance, please.  I'll even chip in if it costs money.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I'm still working on the gum wall, calling myself the curator (though I
Photo by Cake Boss (I know, my
toes should be pointed. Next time.)
have also been called the perpetrator.)  My vision is that there will be street performers and buskers hanging out, and the gum will grow and people will carve little stamps out of potatoes to impress on the wads of goo.  Come get your picture taken!  Count the gum, play the ukelele, do a hand stand, juggle!  We're all going to die anyway, right?  Why not at the very least, be part of something amazing for a minute first?  



Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I was in the Grill the other night with two of the loveliest young people, and we were looking around thinking that everyone looks familiar, and we could name at least five facts about several people.  The beauty and the peril of a small town.  But then there was this couple, the quintessential, "stranger comes to town" thing.  She, wearing a silk suit and pumps, and he also in a suit, but a cheesy one that made him look skinny.  You could see from a mile away that he was way more into her than she was.  But the sad detail, and that's where the story always lies, in the tiny details, is that he had wheely luggage and a big laptop case with him.  I know.  (Like, "Hi!  Oh, sure, I'd love to spend the night.  In fact, I don't even have to go back to my car, my luggage is right here!  I've brought my pajamas, and my blow dryer, and vitamins..."  I had a pretty bad feeling about it.  Sag, this week, don't get carried away.  Keep your luggage in the car.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  I'm pretty sure the best short story ever written is "In the Cemetary Where Al Jolson is Buried" by Amy Hemphill.  Does it seem like the horoscopes are sort of morbid this week?  No, that's not it.  But that story is just beautiful.  And your week will be too!  Read while you still have some eyesight.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Last week I mentioned to someone that I'm considering of having a tree cut down on my property because it's leaning towards the house.  Less than 24 hours later, a woman hunted me down in the coffee shop, "I hear you want my husband to come cut a tree down.  When?"  That's what it's like in a small town.  Does it seem like our brains are a bit like a small town? Like, oh, there's that vaguely familiar thought.  Didn't I run into you yesterday?  (Uh oh.  I hope that's not just me again.)  Aquarius, your week will be like a new exciting big city on a far away continent.  Pack up!

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  Someone asked me today what confuses me, and I'll tell you one thing:  why don't we just put that last "g" in orangatan?   You know we want to.  Is there a shortage of the letter g?  Are we saving them up for some special word that hasn't been discovered yet?  Why so miserly with the g's?  Now helium, that's a real shortage.  Pisces, your week will be filled with bouyancy and laughter, as if helium were plentiful.

I'm excited to report that the author Celeste Ng has selected m y modern love essay to read for the Modern Love podcast next week. Suc...