School starts again tomorrow, and as the school year progress, I tend to get dark and negative. SO, I thought about this old post I did for LiveJournal, about looking for Happy Little Things every day. I'm going to see how far I go with it. Here's the original post, as introduction:
Bob Ross, if you don't know, was an art instructor who had a show on PBS for ages. He was so soothing and tranquil as he painted and chatted with the camera. He'd produce a very passable and pleasing painting by the end of every show, and he especially liked to coo about the "happy little trees" he was creating.
In honor of him, and just trying to be more appreciative of life in general, I'm going to try to post a "Happy Little Thing" each day.
My first Happy Little Thing is Bob Ross. He died in 1995, but I hope wherever he is, there are loads of happy little trees.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The Small and Big of It All
I don’t like killing spiders. Maybe it’s a zen thing, or that I just feel that a creature shouldn’t be squashed out of existence just because it had the misfortune to wander into my bathroom sink. So, when I see a spider, I rig an elaborate trap (usually involving a cup and a piece of paper,) do a ridiculous, frantic ritual of capturing the offending insect, and then fling the captive spider out into my front yard. As a result, the bushes right by my front door are a glittering metropolis of spiders.
I just watered the foliage in my yard, and now I’m sitting on my doorstep, looking at the spider webs in the bushes. I spot a spider that has braved the sudden water storm, and is methodically spinning a web between two small branches. I look more closely, and I can see several other webs, all glistening with water drops. The spider’s entire reason for living is spinning these webs to feed itself and I assume, its young. What I also assume is that it doesn’t realize (or care) that the webs look lovely beaded with water, with the sun shining through them. It’s a spontaneous, beautiful piece of art, right there for my viewing enjoyment. It’s a fine reward for not mashing its creator into a tissue.
About a week ago, I was in Colorado, shivering on my parents’ patio at 2 a.m., staring up at the sky at the Perseid meteor shower. There was no moon, and the sky was full of stars. Just looking at the Milky Way, all 200 billion stars of it, made me dizzy and that’s just the teeny-tinest fraction of the known universe. The universe is 12-14 billion years old and 156 billion light years wide, (give or take a light year) and just crammed packed full of stars and planets and God knows what else. To add to the sheer enormity of it all, there are theories of parallel universes, beyond our dimension. THIS universe, that humans can only see the smallest part of, may be just one of millions. That’s a lot of space. I firmly believe that there’s other life out there; there HAS to be. Something, somewhere out there has to have crawled out of primordial ooze and evolved into a creature that can look up and marvel at its own view of the stars. I thought about all those other worlds, other creatures. What things keep them awake? What’s important to them? What do they think about? What are their lives like?
I’ve been stewing lately about some things in my life that are irking me. As an introvert, it’s so easy for me to become mired in labyrinthine thoughts and projected scenarios. But what’s the point? I can either change something or I can’t. If I can, I need to take action. If I can’t, I need to deal and not spend time thinking “What if?” When I think about the lives of a spider and a creature 50 billion light years away, can my little issues really be worth wasting precious time on? I need things like this to remind me that I’m a tiny part of the huge web of existence. I don’t mean in a diminishing way, just that everything, whether it’s got two, eight, or fifty legs, are all in the same cosmological boat chugging across time and space, and there’s something comforting in that. I think I’ll go take a walk.
About a week ago, I was in Colorado, shivering on my parents’ patio at 2 a.m., staring up at the sky at the Perseid meteor shower. There was no moon, and the sky was full of stars. Just looking at the Milky Way, all 200 billion stars of it, made me dizzy and that’s just the teeny-tinest fraction of the known universe. The universe is 12-14 billion years old and 156 billion light years wide, (give or take a light year) and just crammed packed full of stars and planets and God knows what else. To add to the sheer enormity of it all, there are theories of parallel universes, beyond our dimension. THIS universe, that humans can only see the smallest part of, may be just one of millions. That’s a lot of space. I firmly believe that there’s other life out there; there HAS to be. Something, somewhere out there has to have crawled out of primordial ooze and evolved into a creature that can look up and marvel at its own view of the stars. I thought about all those other worlds, other creatures. What things keep them awake? What’s important to them? What do they think about? What are their lives like?
I’ve been stewing lately about some things in my life that are irking me. As an introvert, it’s so easy for me to become mired in labyrinthine thoughts and projected scenarios. But what’s the point? I can either change something or I can’t. If I can, I need to take action. If I can’t, I need to deal and not spend time thinking “What if?” When I think about the lives of a spider and a creature 50 billion light years away, can my little issues really be worth wasting precious time on? I need things like this to remind me that I’m a tiny part of the huge web of existence. I don’t mean in a diminishing way, just that everything, whether it’s got two, eight, or fifty legs, are all in the same cosmological boat chugging across time and space, and there’s something comforting in that. I think I’ll go take a walk.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Hair
I got my hair cut today. Not really worth noting, but yet in a way, it is. I went from having very long hair (down to the middle of my back) to shortish hair (level to my ears.) I've been letting it grow for probably five or six years, but I realized a few weeks ago that I never wore my long hair down. I always pulled it up into a bun or a ponytail. It seemed silly to be maintaining all that hair and never displaying it, so I thought it would be nice to have some of it lopped off. I didn't plan to get THAT much cut off, but the stylist misunderstood my request and only glanced at the photo I brought. When she made the first cut, it was too late to stop her. I was pretty upset at first but after a few hours, I started to think that it looks okay. AND it will grow again, so I'm trying not to fuss about it.
I lived in London for a college semester. My friend got his hair buzzcut at the now defunct Kensington Market, and one day on a whim, I got the same cut. I loved it. It was a breeze to take care of, and struck me as very hip. I was interning at Melody Maker Magazine, and I wanted to fit in with the music journalists who buzzed in and out of the office. The only drawback was when I was constantly called "Sir" by shop clerks. That's kind of rough on a young woman's self esteem. I grew it out before I came home, so I wouldn't give my parents a stroke, but I do have fond memories of it.
My whole life, I've only taken sporadic interest in my hair. This has driven some of my girly-girl friend insane, but I do get bored talking about products and procedures, and I can think of a thousand different things that I could do with the $75 many women plunk down at a hair salon. I take my chances with SuperCuts, come what may. I have also, in the past, butchered my hair with expired hair dye, purchased at swap meets for $2, with a wide range of results, from movie star glamorous to Muppet nightmare. I'm lucky I don't look like Curly from the Three Stooges.
I actually like the color of my hair; it's brown with gold and red highlights in the sun. It's baby-fine and prone to soft curls. Over the last few years, some strands of gray have started to creep in. The first one I spotted rocked my world a little, but after that, I was fine with it. I've always pictured having long, silver hair when I'm an old woman, like Georgia O'Keeffe. I like the look of gray hair and I'm going to let it come as it will, because I can't bear the idea of becoming a slave to the colorist. I know gray hair denotes old age, but it also denotes wisdom, theoretically. I think I've got a few years until I'm all gray, so a short haircut is a nice change. I may feel differently after the first time I'm called "Sir".
I lived in London for a college semester. My friend got his hair buzzcut at the now defunct Kensington Market, and one day on a whim, I got the same cut. I loved it. It was a breeze to take care of, and struck me as very hip. I was interning at Melody Maker Magazine, and I wanted to fit in with the music journalists who buzzed in and out of the office. The only drawback was when I was constantly called "Sir" by shop clerks. That's kind of rough on a young woman's self esteem. I grew it out before I came home, so I wouldn't give my parents a stroke, but I do have fond memories of it.
My whole life, I've only taken sporadic interest in my hair. This has driven some of my girly-girl friend insane, but I do get bored talking about products and procedures, and I can think of a thousand different things that I could do with the $75 many women plunk down at a hair salon. I take my chances with SuperCuts, come what may. I have also, in the past, butchered my hair with expired hair dye, purchased at swap meets for $2, with a wide range of results, from movie star glamorous to Muppet nightmare. I'm lucky I don't look like Curly from the Three Stooges.
I actually like the color of my hair; it's brown with gold and red highlights in the sun. It's baby-fine and prone to soft curls. Over the last few years, some strands of gray have started to creep in. The first one I spotted rocked my world a little, but after that, I was fine with it. I've always pictured having long, silver hair when I'm an old woman, like Georgia O'Keeffe. I like the look of gray hair and I'm going to let it come as it will, because I can't bear the idea of becoming a slave to the colorist. I know gray hair denotes old age, but it also denotes wisdom, theoretically. I think I've got a few years until I'm all gray, so a short haircut is a nice change. I may feel differently after the first time I'm called "Sir".
Monday, August 16, 2010
Introduction
I am an unapologetic dilettante. I dabble in various interests for various amounts of time, without becoming an expert on anything. One day I’m interested in the English Civil War and the next day, I’m into String Theory. The day after that, it might be ecclesiastical architecture or Gnosticism. My mind bounces around like a ball in a pinball machine, and while that kind of intellectual turmoil has molded me into being very shallow, it also keeps me constantly entertained and engaged.
Although I have many interests, I have few talents. Well, just one talent, really. I am a fairly competent writer but I lack discipline and practice, because I am the definition of the word “slacker”. I’ve turned goofing off into a life philosophy and the meaning of my existence. It’s amusing, but it also seems like a slight waste of time as well. This is why I’ve resolved (yet again) to blog. An athlete keeps their gym bag in their car; an artist carries around a sketchbook. If I have a repository for writing, I may actually do it more often and keep the one talent I have from drying up and dying.
Topics will range, as the cliché goes, from the ridiculous (I wish fanny packs weren’t so lame because they really are incredibly convenient) to the sublime (why does Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” move me to tears?) Of course, the running theme throughout all my blog entries will be me, because I’m also immensely self-centered. I don’t mean arrogant. I mean I’m narcissistic in its literal sense: I’m fascinated by myself. I think all writers are egocentric to some degree. Why else would we assume other people want to read what we write?
YOU are reading this, so my evil plan has worked. Please feel free to stop back occasionally. I can promise neither quality nor quantity, but I will occasionally post a photograph that might be nice to look at. Or a manifesto. The sky’s the limit when a slacker is in charge.
By the way, my blog’s name derives from one of my favorite Monty Python sketches, wherein Mr. Milton, the sole proprietor of the Whizzo Chocolate Company, must defend his revolting assortment of candy flavors to the Hygiene Squad, including the Crunchy Frog: "We use only the finest baby frogs, dew-picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in finest-quality spring water, lightly killed, and then sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth treble cream milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose." Much, MUCH more on Monty Python in later entries. I promise.
Although I have many interests, I have few talents. Well, just one talent, really. I am a fairly competent writer but I lack discipline and practice, because I am the definition of the word “slacker”. I’ve turned goofing off into a life philosophy and the meaning of my existence. It’s amusing, but it also seems like a slight waste of time as well. This is why I’ve resolved (yet again) to blog. An athlete keeps their gym bag in their car; an artist carries around a sketchbook. If I have a repository for writing, I may actually do it more often and keep the one talent I have from drying up and dying.
Topics will range, as the cliché goes, from the ridiculous (I wish fanny packs weren’t so lame because they really are incredibly convenient) to the sublime (why does Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” move me to tears?) Of course, the running theme throughout all my blog entries will be me, because I’m also immensely self-centered. I don’t mean arrogant. I mean I’m narcissistic in its literal sense: I’m fascinated by myself. I think all writers are egocentric to some degree. Why else would we assume other people want to read what we write?
YOU are reading this, so my evil plan has worked. Please feel free to stop back occasionally. I can promise neither quality nor quantity, but I will occasionally post a photograph that might be nice to look at. Or a manifesto. The sky’s the limit when a slacker is in charge.
By the way, my blog’s name derives from one of my favorite Monty Python sketches, wherein Mr. Milton, the sole proprietor of the Whizzo Chocolate Company, must defend his revolting assortment of candy flavors to the Hygiene Squad, including the Crunchy Frog: "We use only the finest baby frogs, dew-picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in finest-quality spring water, lightly killed, and then sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth treble cream milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose." Much, MUCH more on Monty Python in later entries. I promise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)