Counting Blessings

     Last night I was trying to download the new update for the Iphone, and I was informed I didn't have enough memory left to support it.  I've had the dropbox app for a while now, but  I didn't set it to automatically upload my whole camera roll because I knew that I didn't want to keep everything.  So I spent two hours going through the whole thing, picture by picture, and I was struck by the succession of monumental moments - good and bad.  It was like excavating through layers of time and made me think of the city of Istanbul, with its sedimentary layers of cultural and historical remnants.
      My camera roll only goes back about a year and a half, but a lot has happened in my life during that time.  I was in a car accident a little over a year ago, that could have been fatal.  Pre-surgery pics and post-surgery pics, X-rays, and the ones of the mangled car.  A major portion of my pictures are of Sal Paradise, my beloved feline friend, who ran away at about a year old, without so much as a parting word.  Those pictures were harder for me to go through than ones from the accident.  There were also so many good memories that warmed my heart to flip through.  Vacations with great friends, some of whom live far away now.  Visits with my family, which I cherish greatly because there is more distance than I would like between us.  Weddings, christenings, holidays, random happy days - they were all there, buried beneath sets of multiple pics of mixed drinks and random pairs of shoes bound for Instagram.
      I think everyone should take a moment to go through the pictures in their phones from the very beginning, but try to look with the eyes of a stranger.  These are freeze-frames of time that you wanted to capture and hold on to.  What impression would a stranger get from peeking into your life through the lens of your camera phone?  I'm willing to bet that they'd see a lot of joy and love.  Doubtlessly there is hardship peppered throughout - but what would the joy mean to you
without the hardship?
      A great friend who is wise beyond her years told me something recently that hasn't left my mind since.  She told me that if the entire world gathered together and everyone threw their problems and issues into a giant pit, and then everyone took turns re-drawing, you would be lucky to get your own problems back.  Maybe really lucky.  Life is really short, people.  Way shorter than we realize on a daily basis.  Judge it by the moments you deemed important enough to document and you'll be surprised at how obvious the blessings and miracles are and how often they occur.
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=WlBiLNN1NhQ#

Amanda Bynes: From Ask Ashley to Go Ask Alice? Hopefully Not.

       

Amanda Bynes strikes again.  On Monday she was detained for a mental health evaluation after she was found in the driveway of a California residence, lying down next to a "sizable fire" and trying to "snuff flames on her left pant leg."  According to an article in The Daily News yesterday, a man driving by saw her and pulled over; by the time he reached her, she was sans pants and chasing her dog.  The good samaritan, Andrew Liverpool, put out the fire while Bynes ran off and ducked into a nearby liquor store to wash the gasoline off of her Pomeranian.
        The clerk at the store said that she entered the back room without permission and that when he followed her she "reeked of gasoline" and "seemed freaked out" while she rinsed the dog off in a sink.  After waiting to talk to the firefighters, Liverpool got back in his car and went to look for Bynes.  He spotted her talking on her phone on the side of the road.
        Liverpool called 911 with her location and proceeded to block her from getting into a cab, which is allegedly when he recognized her - as a star and a former classmate - apparently Bynes briefly attended the same high school as Liverpool.  "She said she had to go, that her dog was burnt," Liverpool told reporters.  He said the dog was wet, but didn't seem to be burned in any way.  Bynes jumped into the cab but police caught up with her and she was taken to a local hospital, where she is currently waiting out a 5150 hold - an involuntary hospitalization for mental evaluation.

     

        That's the best thing for Amanda Bynes right now, an evaluation.  She set the fire in the driveway of complete strangers who live around the block from her parents, whom she hasn't spoken to in months.  This is an obvious cry for help.  Her recent antics make Britney's (a fellow member of the the 5150 club)

meltdown a few years back look pretty boring.  She was arrested last May for hurling a bong out the window of her NYC apartment when police arrived, responding to a complaint that the actress had rolled and smoked a joint in the building's lobby.  Shortly after, she claimed on Twitter that she was sexually assaulted by the officers who arrested her.
        She will obviously do anything she can think of to get attention - from her recent affinity for outrageous wigs to shopping at Bloomingdale's in nothing but a T-shirt - but the kind of attention she needs is psychiatric.  Her life in the public eye is playing out just like her signature sketch on Nickelondeon's "All That."  She started out all sweet and cute but she is quickly spiraling out of control.  In fact, I bet if Amanda asked Ashley, she'd get an earful.

Pessimists Anonymous

 Hi.  My name is Shannon, and I am a pessimist.  I can't remember my first negative thought, but I have been pessimistic for as long as I can recall.  I've been told it's because I'm too smart; I've been told it's because I'm too lazy; I think it's because I'm addicted to this way of thinking.  It's become a habit, one so ingrained in my daily behavior that now I'm worried it can't be broken.

     I don't want to be like this.  I want to see the good in things - big and small - things like the future and things like long lines at the grocery store.  But I get in theses frames of mind when I only think of what is or could go wrong, and once I start I just can't stop.  That's why I'm here.

     The dichotomy between pessimism and optimism has been nagging at me lately.  I guess it makes sense; I'm going through a time in my life that I know I will look back on as a low point.  I'm sure that good things will come of it - some already have.  See?  I'm really working on being optimistic, but the thing is, it's so damn hard.  It really is like trying to master an addiction.  It's a daily battle - I have to take one day at a time and I'm constantly relapsing.  Alright, I know it isn't as dire as an addiction to cocaine or something like that.  But overcoming addiction to a thing as innocuous in the eyes of the law and society as pessimism is extremely difficult.  If I ever get to the point where I can be optimistic about just somethings without trying, I will consider it a miracle.  

                                                   

     There are people who make optimism look easy.  How do they do it?  I'm finding the fact to be one of life's greatest mysteries these days.  I envy the skill of optimism; and it is a skill, I've decided.  Just like some people are born with a proclivity for art or music or math, some are naturally and innately prone to optimism.  But most, I think, have to work at it.  Tend it, like a garden.  I'm a big reader, so I often think in terms of literary symbols; I can think of a perfect example: a certain lonely, sick rose growing in a vacant lot from my beloved Dark Tower series.  But the allusion is of course useless to anyone who hasn't read it.  I'm trying to come up with a literary symbol that would be instantly recognizable to everyone but, alas, that is becoming impossible these days.  However, optimism is the driving force behind every quest taken on by every hero in every great story ever told.  Optimism and hope can be confused, but they are different things.  I'm not exactly sure how, I just know that hope comes much easier; but neither are just the stuff of stories.  For me, optimism appears to be the difference between life and existence. 

Feline Spongiform Encephalopathy: The Science Behind Crazy Cat Ladies

        The results of a Danish study on 45,000 women, conducted over a period of thirty years, were made public this past summer that discovered a link between cat ownership and suicide.  Women infected with a parasite found in cat feces called Toxoplasma gondii (T. gondii) were found to be 1.5 times more likely to commit suicide.  This isn't a very large increase, but when added to the findings of previous studies - links between T. gondii and changes in behavior and mental illnesses like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder - the correlation between cat ladies and madness is difficult to ignore.  Now, I realize this is a relatively old study, but I just found out about it and I have too many cat ladies in my life, crazy or otherwise, to not comment.
       

        With the cat ladies I know, the most obvious sign of insanity is the number of cats they possess.  If you met them out in public, you may not necessarily think to yourself that they were crazy; but if you were invited into their home, the words "Crazy Cat Lady" would leap into your head, completely unbidden.  According to an article on npr.org, "Scientists still aren't sure how the parasite affects a person's brain, [...] But in rodents, it causes cysts to form in areas of the brain involved in behavior.  A study of rats also found that infection caused them to lose their fear of cats and become attracted to the odor of cat urine. That behavioral change would increase the chance that a rat would be eaten by a cat — allowing the parasite to get into the cat's intestine, which is the only place it can reproduce sexually."  This is what I have observed in crazy cat ladies, as well; the more cats they own, the more attracted they are to the idea of having more.  The article notes that cats don't eat people very often, so the parasite can't benefit from infecting humans, we are just "collateral damage."

Notice All The Cat "Artwork"; The Herd Just Isn't Enough

       
        Well, scientists may still be unsure what T. gondii infection does to the human brain, but I can tell you.  The cat ladies that I know love their cats like family, take them for walks and rides in the car, and in many cases they seem to have more rights than human family members.  It's a mental illness that makes women want to dress their cats in sweaters, nuzzle them like boyfriends and eat next to them at the dinner table.  These cysts apparently form in the area of the female human brain that creates songs about the names of cats and feels compelled to ascribe human emotions to feline facial expressions.  I understand it because I've been surrounded by crazy cat ladies all my life, and because now I'm finally falling victim to the disease myself.  I realize that I am way too obsessed with my cat, but I just can't help it, so I will try to take it easy on my more advanced counterparts and keep praying that my personal case of Mad Cat Disease is a slowly metastasizing one.

My Own Private Oubliette

Have you ever felt like you’ve fallen into a hole?  Like you’re clinging to the side of a cliff, at the point where the prospect of climbing back up to the top is too daunting but you can’t see the bottom and you’re too scared to let go?  

 I’m in that hole right now, talking to you from my niche in the wall, a temporary foothold that will let go at any moment.  It might be difficult to hear me.  You may have to lean in and cup your ear.  But be careful.  Don’t fall in.  I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, and if I can’t save myself, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.

Like Alice, I was trying to avoid the mundane tedium of the everyday.  I wandered off and fell in.  But mine is no rabbit hole.  Its walls are not lined with clocks and cupboards.  There is no Wonderland at the bottom.

Truth be told, there is no bottom.  It just keeps going and going.  Its walls are lined with sharp roots and slimy fungus.  The more desperately I try to claw toward salvation the dirtier and more battered I become.

Why do I carry on this mad clawing?  It would be so much easier to cross my arms and feet and fall down into the abyss that I know will claim me in the end.  But I know someone will keep me from falling.  They will keep me from falling but won’t pull me out.  And now I’m past the point of seeking succor ~ I fend off the helping hands.  I long for the oubliette that is waiting for me.  Maybe that is what this hole is; maybe I’m in it now.

I don’t want a lifeline.  Sometimes I long to hear my own death rattle; in my morbid little musings, it is a comforting sound.  What I really want is for the people trying to pull me up to come to the same realization as me: that it is a silly venture – inane and futile.  What is waiting at the top?  My hole is dark, but it is warm.  Analogous to that of Jack the Bear, the invisible man.  His hole was bright, but he was invisible.  Mine is dark but I must be conspicuous down here because people won’t let me have any peace.

What I want is for someone to help me – but not help me out.  Help me overcome this senseless, innate need to fight my way up.  Help me tie my hands and feet together.

So I can go sailing down

Into the sadness

Into the sleep

Into the quiet

Into the deep.

But I can’t ask anyone to do that.  And no one would volunteer.  I haven’t the courage to dig in and climb up or to fold my arms and fall down.  I’m stuck here, clinging to the side of this hole.  An oubliette I’ve built for myself; teetering in a purgatory I’ve created.

 

South African Hippo Suffers Death by Doltishness

        A hippopotamus died today in South Africa after it stumbled into a pool at a game conservation lodge and suffered exhaustion from the efforts of trying to climb out.  The hippo got stuck in the pool on Tuesday and conservation lodge workers and animal activists waited anxiously for the arrival of a veterinarian that was to supervise the lifting of the hippo to safety with a crane.  I just don't get this story.  I'm not sure if the writer from the Associated Press is an idiot, but the people who were supposed to be helping the hippo were definitely short some brain cells.

        I mean, obviously the hippo was in distress, I don't see why they need a vet to tell them that.  It's not like these people were just bystanders, with no knowledge of animals - they work in animal conservation.  Some of the quotes illustrate my point about the diminished intellectual capacity of those involved.  "'He was not as perky this morning, more agitated, like he was irritated. I think because he wanted to get out of the pool. That's my personal opinion,' said Ferreira."  No shit?  I wonder how long one must study animals to be able to recognize that being stuck somewhere that you can't get out of, surrounded by people who refuse to help, is irritating?  Ferreira is the lodge manager, by the way, as in, the person in charge.  The activists and lodge workers tried to blame the vet, Dr. Alex Lewis, and vice versa: "When journalists questioned Lewis about not arriving earlier, he said he couldn't have saved the animal because it was in such poor condition already.  Lewis said he had advised the owners of the lodge to feed the animal in order to make it strong enough for the rescue."  So, let me get this straight.  Not only did these people stand around just watching this hippo struggle, they didn't even try to feed it?  What?!  I mean, that seems like the only thing in their power to do that would have made this animal a bit more comfortable.  So, basically, the way I see it, this hippo was murdered.  It didn't suffer exhaustion.  It suffered stupidity.  People should be ashamed of themselves.  

U.S. Tennis Ump Serves Husband Overhead Smash for Breakfast

http://gma.yahoo.com/u-open-referee-charged-killing-husband-coffee-cup-204916663--abc-news-topstories.html

        70-year-old tennis referee, Lois Ann Goodman, was arrested for murder today in New York City, where she was supposed to officiate the U.S. Open.  Back in April, Goodman called Los Angeles police and reported that she had found her 80-year-old husband dead at the bottom of the stairs; she told them that she guessed he had had a heart attack and fallen.  Earlier this month, Alan Goodman's death was ruled a homicide; the cause of death being multiple injuries to the head.  The murder weapon?  According to the arrest warrant, it was a coffee cup.

        If convicted, Goodman faces life in state prison.  LAPD detectives say they know the motive but report that sharing it with the public may affect the case.  If Lois Ann Goodman is anything like me in the morning, the motive could have been something as simple as irritation that her husband was taking too long in the bathroom.  I think she should plead temporary insanity - I don't think anyone should be held responsible for anything they do or say before 9am.  I feel for this woman; I have definitely been guilty of homicidal thoughts in the morning, hell - this morning I considered killing someone.  I can picture her standing at the counter, mug in hand, waiting for those last little irritating drops of coffee to finish coming through the filter.  Her husband was probably complaining about something - the dry-cleaners messed up the crease in his pants again - whatever - and she just snapped.  I completely understand.  I think I'm going to have "Free Lois Goldman" T-shirts made and sell them to help raise her bail.    

Can Anyone Save the Dark Tower?

        The Dark Tower series by Stephen King is an epic quest for redemption: Roland Deschain, the gunslinger, travels through time and other worlds to save the Dark Tower, and his own soul in the process.  He is the ultimate anti-hero - his ka-tet (quest-mates, if you like) start the journey as hostages, but become much more than mere friends.  It is impossible not to hate him a lot of the time - he does unspeakable things, yet speaks of them with no emotion.  But he is actually a loving man with a fragile soul and a desperate need for forgiveness. This series, the crown jewel of Stephen King's extensive canon, incorporates elements of old western movies and stories, along with the magical fantasy of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings.  Pop culture allusions abound - from the 1960s ("Hey Jude" pours out of jukeboxes at various points throughout the series) to the 2000s (a golden snitch from the Harry Potter books saves the characters at one point).  The story plays with the ideas of meta-fiction along with various philosophical ideas, such as the concept of Eternal Return, resurrected in the western world by Friedrich Nietzsche.  In other words, it is a complete hodge-podge of awesomeness - to say that adapting these books for the screen would be a difficult undertaking is a gross under-exaggeration.  It would be damn near impossible to convey every wrinkle in the fabric of this masterpiece.  Which is why the films have never been made.  There wasn't much talk of it even, until the past few years.
        In 2009 I, along with millions of others, rejoiced to hear that J.J. Abrams (director of the hit show Lost and the recent Star Trek movie) had bought the rights to the series for nineteen dollars and was planning to adapt it into a television series.  Nineteen is a number of great importance to the story, so I thought that was really cool.  He had announced that he was planning on getting started after Lost was all wrapped up.  Alas, less than a year later he announced that he was scrapping the project.  Disappointment abounded among fans of the Dark Tower series everywhere.  Until the next year, when the venture got picked up by Ron Howard, Brian Grazer and Akiva Goldsman.  They have decided to turn the books into a combination movie and television series.  Something that has never been done before.  So the seven books would be adapted into 3 films which would be bridged by 2 television miniseries in between each.  An amazing concept, which has proven difficult to shop to studios.  

        Ron Howard's home studio, Universal Pictures, deemed the project too risky and expensive a while ago.  Yesterday afternoon it was announced that Warner Bros. also passed.  I was very sad to hear it, but placated by Howard's attitude toward continuing efforts to make the Dark Tower series into movies.  Entertainment Weekly's website reported that "Howard remains somewhat optimistic, invoking the Dark Tower's term for "destiny" and its philosophy that fate keeps leading one in similar directions until a lesson is learned.  As fans expressed sorrow that his project seemed to be coming to an end, the director tweeted, 'Don't give up on us yet.  Ka is a wheel.'"  That floored me, because it tells me that Ron Howard gets it.  These books are special - hard to explain, difficult to define, so far-reaching in plot and setting, but with characters that are so rich and textured that they remind you of people you know.  I have to see this story on screen before I die.  So an idea that has been touted by many fellow bloggers of late, is one that I have also adopted as the ultimate solution.  Three words: Home Box Office.  HBO has done a fantastic job with another literary masterpiece, Game of Thrones.  That series is only up to six books and has a cast of over a thousand characters; a sweeping epic like the Dark Tower would do very well as an HBO series, I think.  Well, it seems like the fate of the story is in good hands with Ron Howard, for now.  In the story, someone gives the gunslinger very good advice at one point: "Let the word and the legend go before you.  There are those who will carry both."  Hopefully Ron Howard is one of those.                                  

Smartphones: Technological Tethers

        The newest issue of Time magazine is a special report about the rising use and importance of smartphones.  "The Wireless Issue: 10 Ways Your Phone is Changing the World" features a global poll that sheds light on the use of smartphones and attitudes toward them in "all age groups and income levels in eight countries: the U.S., the U.K., China, India, South Korea, South Africa, Indonesia and Brazil" (32).  The cover for this issue is exceedingly cool - a mosaic of 288 Instagram photos sent via mobile from Time readers in 120 countries.  The report is expansive, covering areas from the impact smartphones are making on elections, charity work and purchasing to their elevated use in spheres such as journalism and education.  The part that interests me the most though, is the section entitled: "Your Life is Fully Mobile," which investigates the effects of smartphones on people's everyday lives.

        Nancy Gibbs, the writer of this article, brings up some points about phones that I have been pondering for a while now.  I used to be one of those people who had a phone, but basically just for emergencies - it didn't have internet or the ability to play music or take pictures.  Sounds like a fate worse than death, I know.  I would frequently forget to charge it or even to bring it with me when I went out.  Then, about six months ago, I got the iphone.  Now I sleep with my phone, it sits next to my plate while I eat; sometimes I just hold it in my hand, even though I am not expecting a call or email.  One of the points that Gibbs focuses on is the rapidity with which this obsession with smartphones has occurred.  "It is hard to think of any tool, any instrument, any object in history with which so many developed so close a relationship so quickly as we have with our phones.  Not the knife or match, the pen or page.  Only money comes close - always at hand, don't leave home without it.  But most of us don't take a wallet to bed with us, don't reach for it and check it every few minutes..." (32). According to the global poll, 1 in 4 people said they check their phone every half hour and 1 in 5 admitted to checking it every five minutes; a third of those surveyed claimed that being away from their phones for even short periods of time gave them anxiety.   

        There is no question that smartphones make our lives easier - there are no longer any excuses for not keeping in touch with friends, family and work  - and way more importantly - there is no longer any excuse for not knowing things.  Whatever societal implications come with this obsession, one thing that is sure to dwindle is general ignorance.  Everyday questions like, "what kind of flower is that?" and "who was the lead in that movie again?" can be answered in seconds with barely an interruption in conversation.  Phones definitely make our lives easier, but at what cost?  Gibbs writes that "in the U.S., close to 9 in 10 adults carry a mobile, leaving its marks on body, mind, spirit. [...] Thumbs are stronger, attention shorter, temptation everywhere: we can always be, mentally, digitally, someplace other than where we are" (32). This is the biggest problem, I think.  Having my phone on me at all times gives me the ability to avoid any situation - boring dinner discussion, strangers who for some reason want to chat while they wait for a train or elevator, a long wait in line.  But this supposed need for escape becomes a habit, and speaking only for myself of course, I don't feel the need to wait until I am bored to pull out my phone anymore.  Next time you are out to eat, look around at the other patrons.  Almost everyone is on their phone, and the few that aren't have a forlorn, yet anxious look on their faces like they are missing an essential piece of themselves.  It's disturbing when you consider the attachment that a majority of people have to their phones.  The smartphone "is a form of sustenance, that constant feed of news and notes and nonsense, to the point that [...] many people would pick their phone over their lunch if forced to choose [and] three-quarters of 25-to-29-year-olds sleep with their phones.  Gibbs closes her article with an ominous yet thought-provoking question: how much of our lives and work and relationships is left to be completely transformed by our obsession with smartphones?
**Check out the whole special report and all the details of the global poll:
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/0,9263,7601120827,00.html

The Profundity of Perseids

Mount Evans, Colorado, 2012

        So I stayed up as late as I could to watch the Perseid meteor shower last night.  I love shooting stars - even more than I love rainbows - I know, everyone loves shooting stars and rainbows - it may be the most hackneyed thing I have put to "paper."  Yet, the fact remains, a meteor shower may be my favorite thing ever.  I looked up some information on this meteor shower - on wikipedia - yes, I know, not the most reliable source, but for things like this it is usually reasonably accurate.  "The Perseids are so-called because the point from which they appear to come, called the radiant, lies in the constellation Perseus.[...] The stream of debris is called the Perseid cloud and stretches along the orbit of the comet Swift-Tuttle. The cloud consists of particles ejected by the comet as it travels on its 130-year orbit. Most of the dust in the cloud today is around a thousand years old. However, there is also a relatively young filament of dust in the stream that was pulled off the comet in 1862.^[3] The rate of meteors originating from this filament is much higher than for the older part of the stream."  I think this kind of stuff is so cool - watching a meteor shower is like a form of time travel - what you are seeing actually already happened - it's really strange to think about.  It's also kind of mind-boggling to consider that with all the advancements that have been made in the knowledge of space, people have been enjoying the Perseid shower the same way I did last night for 2000 years.  So, anyway, the shower's peak was actually Saturday, but the clouds were unforgiving.  The best time to watch is as close to dawn as you can get, but the lighter the sky, the harder it is to spot the stars.  I couldn't stay up nearly that late, as I had to work today, but even as early as 1am there was quite a bit of action.  Just in my small patch of sky, I saw 38 shooting stars from 1-2:30, and probably six of those were really impressive.

        I have watched the Perseid shower every August ever since I can remember.  It's funny, I have watched it so many times, but last night I realized that I have never watched it alone.  I've always had at least one person there - I used to watch with my dad and my sister, more recently my little sister, my boyfriend, friends - I do my best to spread the word of the magic of meteor showers.  I believe that it's the only event that can make you feel so small and utterly insignificant, yet for a short time you are connected to the vastness of space in a way that we seldom are.  It's an event so big that most of the world can watch it, but every time someone sees a shooting star it makes them feel uniquely special.  Have you ever watched someone see their first shooting star?  It's pretty cool.  I have a twelve-year-old sister, and a few summers ago I was visiting my parents in Illinois during the Perseid shower, so we watched together.  It's so flat and there are so few trees there that the sky seems bigger - and that year was a good one, I remember.  I had to spend the whole night shushing her loud exclamations of "Wow!  Shannon, did you see that one?!  This is so cool!"  Not to forget all the questions that came with the discovery - "Shannon, where do they land?  Can shooting stars hit planet Earth?  I bet it would hurt to get hit by one.  Ever wonder what they would look like from a plane?"

Sky Over Hungary, 2012

        Last night I waited as long as I could and then grabbed my beach chair and my ipod and trudged up a hill in our yard in the dark.  I laid the chair almost flat - trust me, if you look up at the sky for any length of time without something to lean back on, you will barely be able to move your head the next day - and snuggled into the chair in my pj's and sweatshirt like I used to when I was little.  I found some classical music on my ipod - Vivaldi and Mozart and the like - and it was absolutely lovely.  Vivaldi and Mozart are a much better soundtrack than the noisy cosmic commentary of a 10-year-old.  The temperature was a little brisk, but refreshingly so, and I could smell Autumn lurking just around the corner.  It was a magnificent display of the sublime - and enjoying it alone was galvanizing in a way that is difficult to explain.  There is another meteor shower coming up, so if you missed Perseids - and I doubt anyone got to see the peak with all of the clouds - be sure to make a note on your calendar about the Orionid meteor shower, which will peak on October 21st.

**Fun fact - William Shakespeare is credited with the invention of the phrase, "shooting star":

 "With the eyes of heavy mind, I see thy glory, like a shooting star, Fall to the base earth from the firmament!"  (Richard II)  He is also credited with: good riddance, bedazzle, all's well that ends well, all that glitters is not gold, laughing stock, the naked truth - only a few of dozens!  

Telekinetic Orgasms: Alchemizing the Mundane

     http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/08/06/strange-sex-woman-more-than-15000-orgasms-video_n_1746368.html?utm_hp_ref=women&ir=Women

        This article is very short and so is the video clip, but I think the implications of the concept are more important and far-reaching than the author gives credit for.  This woman can have orgasms by using only the power of her mind - the video shows her supposedly achieving orgasm just by sucking on her husband's finger or eating food in a sensual manner.  Apparently, this is known as "non-genital" orgasm. The article mentions that there is no way to prove if she is having an actual orgasm or just putting on airs, but let's assume for the moment that she isn't pretending.

        One line in particular really gets me and is the point that I want to consider further - her quote: "'The thing about non-genital orgasm is, really, you can train yourself to cum from anything,' Sheri said proudly."  Now, I'm not even sure where to start.  I guess I will begin with the first thing that comes to mind when  I read those words, and that is this middle-aged, very normal-looking (I know, whatever that means) woman sitting at her kitchen table trying to train herself to orgasm from eating rice pudding or something.  The next thing that jumps out at me when I read it, is the "from anything" portion.  For just a moment, let's allow ourselves to consider this idea at greater length.

        Now, the article doesn't mention if men can learn this impressive skill, so I will just consider women for a bit.  Imagine that there were classes or seminars that instructed women in this "training;" (and this woman, Sheri, is a sex educator, by the way) so if women could orgasm from anything at all, we could train ourselves to make the most menial, undesirable tasks happy little highlights in our day.  We would skip to the grocery store for the tedious drudging through endless aisles of crap; dishes and laundry would become transcendent experiences to be looked forward to, not dreaded.  The commute to work would no longer offer time for only thinking or reading; and long lines at the bank would become slightly akin to orgies.  There would be a lot less nagging and complaining.  Everyone's house would be immaculate.  Life would undoubtedly be pretty damn good.  If anyone hears anything about this woman teaching a class or a seminar, please, let me know.

**"Strange Sex" keeps it weird every Sunday at 10 p.m. ET on TLC.

Finding a Written Time Capsule From 2009

        Sorry I haven't written in quite a while.  I was having trouble coming up with a topic for the past few days - actually I've been spending a lot of time seriously considering starting a novel, which is pretty funny because I've been saying that for years.  Case in point, I was looking for an old journal to start jotting some notes down in today and I found one that only had writing on the first few pages.  I started reading what was there and was shocked to see that not everything was crap.  There is a laughably bad poem, which is honestly against my better judgement to put here, but in the interest of full disclosure I will.  Actually, it's hilariously awful so it does possess some value, if only comedic.  The second piece is pretty good, I think, and it's a true account of a day I vividly remember.  The third piece is a journal entry that made me smile because it is fraught with the exact thoughts I've been having for the past week or so.  So here goes, I'm not changing anything, just typing them as they appear in the journal.  I should also add that no one has ever seen these, very few people have ever seen my personal writing - the few times that people have opened my various journals throughout the years, (almost always by accident - they are usually just looking for paper) I have irrationally freaked out.  I realize that I have to get over that if I ever really want to write, which it seem that I do.  I will probably greatly regret this in a few hours.
        May 23, 2009
    "Suspended Disbelief"
Watching a drop of water swell.
A drop on the outside of a glass.
A drip coming off the faucet.
It gets bigger and bigger.
It looks pregnant, I wait for it to give birth.
In its shining, mirrored surface, I see things.
Parched peasants in third world countries.
Oil slick blemishes on the beautiful face of the sea.
Dead fish flowing in the current of a river.
Acid rain ravaging majestic maples.
Tsunamis swallowing pristine beaches.
Waves crushing levees, demolishing cities.
The world's most abundant resource, $2 a bottle.
A planet more than halfway covered with water.
Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
In its round, waxing surface, I see things.
I see myself.
I am thirsty.

** I would like to note here that this was my last attempt at poetry, and will probably remain so, for obvious reasons. **

May 23, 2009
"The Forest in Full Renaissance"
        It was a day in mid-April, and it was ninety-five degrees.  I decided to take a hike.  I was excited to be able to be in the woods when it was this warm and not have to share it with the mosquitoes; but I was disappointed because my favorite part of Spring is its smells, and I thought with the heat the aroma of the forest would skip right over Spring and leapfrog into Summer.  To my delight, I realized when I got there that I had been wrong.
        As I entered the trail I could smell all my Spring favorites - flowering trees and bushes, new grass and wet, warm earth.  The sunlight was coming through the canopy in shafts like spotlights.  It was about noon and, with the sun at its zenith, the new ferns and wildflowers on the forest floor were basking in the limelight.  It had recently rained, and the peculiar quality of the light rendered the light-green baby leaves of the trees in stark contrast to the almost black-colored bark of the still-wet trunks.  All of this mixed with the palpable stillness of the unusually intense heat to create an environment reminiscent only of magical places like the Hundred-acre Wood or that enchanted forest on the other side of the wardrobe door.
        The air around me as I trekked up and downhill, maneuvering around small boulders and stepping over rotted logs, was close and warm, but not overly humid.  The sharp rhythm of a woodpecker sounded startlingly close, but I could not spy the musician, although I searched the treetops all around.  Other birds sang on the branches above me as I walked, and as I came upon no one during my hike, I felt that this special magic of magnified Springtime had been created just for me.
        I rounded a curve in the trail, and the glittering, rippling surface of a pond unfolded to my right.  I stopped for a moment when I reached it, watching the gliding reflections of the clouds in the mirror of the pond.  I could hear the waterfall I knew was on the other side; and although that was normally my favorite part of these trails, it was getting hotter by the minute it seemed, and I was getting tired and thirsty.  I took one last look that encompassed the blue sky with its billowy clouds, the pond, slightly chopped by the breeze, and the magical new growth and vibe that was the renaissance of the forest, and turned onto the shortcut that led to the parking lot.  It had been a experience that had assailed all the senses with unexpected surprises.

June 10, 2009
"Short Story"
        For some reason I fear this form of writing.  I don't know why.  Short stories are some of my favorite pieces to read, and I want desperately to be able to write a good one.  I've been working on my writing for a few weeks now, thinking about writing for much longer than that.  It was very difficult for me to get started, I almost had to force myself.  Once I began, I fell into it pretty easily, and I'm actually proud of my first two pieces - one a poem and  the other a short piece of nature writing.  These were the first two ideas I had and I actually got them out on paper - the first time I've done that and it felt great.  I feel a little self-conscious about the writing while I'm doing it, and I don't know why - re-reading them now I like a lot of the images I thought were silly and I think I conveyed the concepts I wanted to.  This summer and this book are going to be writing workshops for me.  My goal is to create as many forms of writing as I can and practice, practice, practice.  These first two attempts weren't terrible, actually I think they weren't even bad, but I need to get to fiction.  That's what I want to write and what seems so difficult for me to write.  The short story is tricky because you have to focus everything into a small window, but I think I shouldn't have trouble pulling that off.  I'm having trouble thinking of a plot that's worth writing and reading about.  I have the shadowy outlines of a character in my mind - female, about my age, unsatisfied with life - but that's as far as I'm getting.  I'm reading Stephen King's On Writing, and he says that ideas for stories come from the collision of two previously unrelated concepts, but that's not happening and I don't have time to wait.  So I think I'm going to attempt a loosely autobiographical piece for practice, and I hope that doesn't make me a sell-out.  Maybe a more original idea will come to me while I'm using my shitty little life for some inspiration.

        Okay.  That didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, but it did hurt a little, I must admit.  So this journal entry is a snapshot of my mindset about three years ago, and its startling to me because it is simultaneously so similar to and so different from my thoughts these days.  I was a bit more pessimistic back then - not much but a little - I don't think my life is shitty and little anymore.  Also, when I wrote this I obviously thought a lot more highly of that awful poem, which makes me laugh.  The parts about writing fiction are all still true, however.  I still can't think of a plot worth writing and reading about, and right now I have the shadowy outlines of a character remarkably similar to the one I described then.  Interestingly, though, the next few pages of the journal contain notes for a short story about a female character that isn't anything like me, and it takes place in the 1960s.  It was really cool to find that journal and to read those words, on today of all days.  Feels providential or something.  I learned two important lessons from finding these pieces and reproducing them here: 1.) that I did, and still do, use the word "actually" entirely too much and 2.) that the girl who wrote that, and the girl who writes this, has a desperate need to write fiction.  It's a gnawing feeling that won't go away.  I can't really explain it.  The closest that I can come is to quote the magnificent Maya Angelou: "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

50 Shades of Grey - The Latest Watermark in Poop Culture

        So, as everyone who hasn't been residing under a rock for the past few months is aware, the "novel," Fifty Shades of Grey is taking the nation by storm.  I am more ashamed than I can put here in words that I purchased this "book," and read almost 200 pages of it before I threw it away.  Just looking at the line I just typed makes me feel a little queasy.  This was hands down the most horrendously written piece of filth I have ever seen.  This lady, E.L. James makes R.L. Stine look like William freaking Faulkner.  Remember R.L. Stine and Goosebumps?  At one point in the nineties he was turning out a piece of crap, 200 page book every two weeks.  Seriously.  And he is WAY better than James.  I wasted money on a lot of his books too, but I was eleven.  So, now that this "book" has permeated the literary world with the foulest of stenches, it has moved on to infect   theater.  

        Yes, you heard me correctly, the turd, Fifty Shades of Grey  has been turned into a short musical by AVbyte. It depicts what the makers see as the "three camps in this whole "50 Shades of Grey" phenomenon: camp "I love this book," camp "this book is garbage," and camp "I'd never tell anyone, but I'm secretly reading and liking this book" (huffingtonpost.com).  I agree with this, and at least my camp is represented.  Thank god it isn't hitting any actual theaters - yet.  But I honestly don't feel confident that it won't happen.  I always knew that there was way too much stupidity per capita in this country, but these days it seems like an epidemic.  So let's all keep our fingers crossed that this literary chancre doesn't metastasize - well, beyond Hollywood, that is - because the movie is coming, folks.  Yikes America!

Demoscopology at the Beach

        I spent this past weekend at the beach with great friends.  The Delaware beaches are the best I've ever been to, (not that I've been to that many) - not too crowded, but just populated enough for good people-watching.  I am an avid people-watcher.  I recently adopted the term demoscopology for this odd hobby when I came across an interesting entry in the Urban Thesaurus: "Demoscope -\dē-mäs-skōp\ - To covertly examine the interactions of human subjects in a natural setting" (urbandictionary.com).  When I go out to eat, I'm way more interested in what is going on at other tables - I like to listen to conversations - even if, actually especially if, they are personal.  I've watched and listened to strangers break up, get engaged, all that milestone stuff that people usually do in restaurants.  I even listen to people talking when they are just walking by - like at the mall or a flea market or something.  Sometimes those are the best - little nuggets of strange conversation without any context.  Once, at a diner, I eavesdropped on a conversation that lasted longer than an hour.  I actually asked my boyfriend not to talk to me until we got in the car.  A little mean, I know, but this one was gold.  It was a meeting between two older men who had never met before.  One was writing a book about aliens and UFO's, and the other man was saying that his dog had been abducted from his yard the day before.  The writer asked the guy if he had looked for his dog and he answered that he knew exactly where he was so there was no point in searching.  The writer said that he was exactly right and and that canvassing the neighborhood for the dog would be a waste of time.  This was the most interesting point in the conversation, and the only part that really stuck in my memory, but it was good stuff.  The beach is the best place for people-watching, I'm not exactly sure why.  Maybe because of the exhibitionism that goes on at the beach, and exposing more of yourself than usual in public seems to do strange things to people.  It makes some self-conscious while it makes others overly confident.  This makes for odd behavior that is entertaining as hell to watch.

        Beach demoscopology is divided between two major areas.  First area of interest is the sand - where you first encounter all the different types of people on the beach.  There are the people embarrassed to show too much skin - they stay pretty stationary and fiddle with their suits a lot.  Then there is the group that obviously wishes they were wearing less clothing - they stroll up and down the beach and play games like volleyball and Frisbee, so as to show off their rippling pecs and abs.  Then there is the group that hates the sun like poison but are on the beach anyway.  They pitch tents in the sand, wear long-sleeve shirts and smear their faces with zinc oxide.  Then there is the flock of elderly women who just don't care anymore and are going to enjoy the beach no matter what they look like - maybe for the first time in their lives - these ladies are usually my favorite.  A few years ago I got a great picture of a group of 4 ladies standing in circle, trying out belly dancing moves that one had learned in a class.  Don't know what happened to that picture.  A real tragedy.                                                                                                          
        The second, and much better area of interest is the water, of course.  This is where people don't feel as self-conscious and inhibited.  They splash around and act like little kids, or the couples get really randy.  The boogy-boarders are always good for a laugh.  It's fun for anyone to watch complete strangers wipe out and go skidding down the beach on their chin.  Good wholesome fun for all.  Then there is everyone's favorite - the wave induced wardrobe malfunction.  I was the victim of this over the weekend for the second time in my life - almost as embarrassing as the first.  Everyone knows what I'm talking about - people -usually girls, due to the fact that suits these days are made with and held together by materials akin to dental floss - jump through a wave that pulls their bottoms down (or off in extreme cases) and gives tops a mind and agenda of their own.  A few years ago I was on a family vacation on Chincoteague Island in Virginia.  So I'm splashing around in the water, jumping waves with my sisters, when one knocks me down and I stand up - facing the beach with most of my family on it - sans top!  I was completely unaware of the fact until my uncle made a strange hand gesture and I look down to find my chest exposed and my top floating in water a few feet away.  Great.  Everyone promised they didn't see anything, but I know they were lying.  To this day, I still can't figure out if the witnesses being family made more or less humiliating.  This trip, I fell victim to the other kind of malfunction.  I didn't completely lose my bottoms, and my butt was facing the water this time, but I definitely gave a few people a free little show.  I'm going to invent a bikini that comes with suspenders to prevent this kind of thing from happening.  Maybe I will become a millionaire!  Fingers crossed.

The Latest Development in My Bibliophilia

        Super bored at work again today - spent half the day looking up quotes.  Not exactly sure what my fascination with quotes is all about - I seem to enjoy claiming the thoughts of others - not as my own, but as if to say "I agree" or something.  Well, anyway, looking up quotes today gave me some ideas on how to keep myself busy, at least.  I'm always looking for things to do - if it was possible to die of boredom, I would have died many times by now.  So, I found some good Herman Melville quotes, which gave me the idea to read Moby Dick again.  Lots of people hate that book, but I loved it when I read it in school.  To be fair, I did skip some chapters - all those chapters about rope and different whaling gear are not exactly crucial to the plot.  Maybe this time around I will try to get into those chapters.  That led me to another idea - on Jeopardy! the other day, a contestant said that he had tried several times to succeed in reading 100 books in a year, and couldn't do it.  He said that the secret is to read the shortest books you can find.  I started thinking about this, and as an avid reader I don't think it would be that difficult.  I am a slow reader, and even so I manage to read an average of about 50 books a year without really trying.  In my college days, (admittedly, not that long ago) as an English major, I read six or seven books a month while taking classes - that is 60 or 70 books in 10 months - so I decided to give it a try.  I don't want to read just any old books, though, I want to read good ones.  So I looked up the New York Times "100 Best Novels of All Time" and saw that I had read about half of that list and disagreed with the placement of about half of those books, so I looked up Time magazine's list of the top 100 novels.  This list has only 17 books that I've read and I agree with the placement of all, except for Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita.  That book is number 4 on the NY Times list and also appears on Time's, although those are in no particular order.  This book is about a rich, old pervert cavorting with a rebellious twelve-year-old girl - which most would agree is gross and inappropriate  - but I never would have thought it would be boring and tedious, too.  I read until there were 40 pages left and just couldn't care anymore, so I threw it away.  I am not in the habit of ever throwing books away, unless they are horrible, then I think that the garbage is the best place for them.  Life is too short to invest time in crap; along that vein, I decided that I will give each of the books on this list a fair shot and if I hate them, then I will move on to the next.

"The Bookworm," 1850 by Carl Spitzweg

     So, I'm starting with Moby Dick, which for some reason that Time and the NY Times should both be ashamed of does not appear on either list - even though I have read it already - because I had that idea first.  Then I will start with "A" on the Time magazine list and work my way to the end.  That will make 83 books, and I will decide after that what 17 others I will supplement the list with to make 100.  I bet it won't take me a whole year, but I guess we will have to see what happens.