The jig is up!

My candle burns at both ends,
it will not last the night.
But ah my foes, and oh my friends,
it gives a lovely light.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

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So, it’s gotten really negative, hasn’t it? There’s a war being waged, people dying over oil, over something that we should have evolved beyond years ago anyway. A war to pave the way for the government’s brothers and sisters to set up lucrative contracts rebuilding what was destroyed, or what never was (I heard that there’s a Pizza Hut in Fallujah). With its right hand Congress is making moves to severely debilitate Medicaid benefits, and with its left it’s trying to force legislation to keep a brain dead woman alive, a woman whose family relies on Medicaid to pay for her daily observation and life-support equipment. The average CEO makes 360 times what the average laborer makes, WalMart stores are popping up like monsoon frogs, and lawmakers are laying the bricks to make a move towards a future ban on abortion. Racism, poverty, inequality, the brazilification of our entire society.

There is so much negativity, it will swallow us up if we don’t watch our backs, it will consume us whole. And it nearly got me.

I can’t continue to add to the downward spiral, the cynicism, and the constant critique of nothing. Friends, this is my last blog. I wish you all health and happiness!

Peace,
-Anne

xoxox

Ostara

Spring is slowly, slowly creeping into the corners of northeast Ohio. It’s been a long winter and even the tiniest sliver of sunlight fills me with anticipation; and today there’s not even one cloud in the sky! I’m skipping lunch and I’m going for a run, reuniting with the kid I used to be, the one who would spend the entire recess at Prospect doing back flips on the big double slide. Play time!

And also, I bought a guitar over the weekend… (Rock star photos to follow.)

This weekend Patrick and I finally raked the entire back yard, and deposited the accumulated mass of leaves into our newly built compost structure. I have never seen as muddy a back yard as I saw on Saturday. Shame on us! Our punishment for putting off the task for the entire winter is that now we’ll have to plant grass seed. (Which needed to be done anyway.)

But, the leaves had already begun to decompose. Even through the freezing cold. Some of them were translucent, some of them looked as if they had been petrified, there were big fat earthworms and seedpods from the few sweet gum trees. At the end of the raking I was exhausted and instead of using the shovel to move the piles upon piles of leaves I plunged my hands in, and moved fistfuls. The smell was amazing; it was wet and earthy and dark and like thick roots dug up and covered with Ohio clay. And reminded me of the forest on Evergreen’s campus, and the path to the Organic Farm.

I think I might form an Open Spaces Coalition of my own.

My lunchtime story.

Today I had lunch at the burrito bar with a few people. We got our burritos, and took the table next to the rack with all of the hot sauce, napkins, and silverware. About fifteen minutes into my lunch (the burritos are huge) a college students walks in, gets in line. I don’t take much notice, because someone is telling a funny story.

So, sometime later this same college student has made his way over to the hot sauce rack with his freshly rolled burrito. It is then that I really take notice of him.

He was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, and a pair of levis that were falling down around his hips, you know, the way the kids used to wear them, drooped. Except the problem was that the guy wasn’t wearing any underwear. Nothing. Nada. His pale but phenomenally hairy ass was hanging out of his pants for everyone to see. And I mean everyone; kids, old ladies, me. It was an equal opportunity horror. He was shaking his shit around like it was happy hour and we were in some tropic locale. It amazes me that he didn’t feel the cold air caressing his exposed cheeks, but now that I think back, maybe he didn’t notice because his exposed parts were completely covered in coarse, thick ass-hair. Or maybe he did notice, which is even more disturbing.

Suffice it to say that I didn’t finish my lunch. Jesus Christ. I wish I had taken my camera.

I don't like petroleum, either.

I like movies. I tend to watch them a lot, the good and the bad, and I tend to have strong opinions about them. So, if you noticed, I’ve added a “recently screened” list to my profile. And maybe, just maybe, when I’m really bored, I’ll make a separate page of reviews, and link it to the recently screened list.

Having said that, I watched I Heart Huckabees last night. If you haven’t seen it you should really watch it. Especially if you received a liberal arts degree. Especially if you have ever been captivated by philosophy or the English language, or have secretly enjoyed an awkward moment with a stranger (you pervert, you). It’s funny, it’s witty, it will affect you, and hell, it has Mark Wahlberg. And he wears a firefighter’s uniform.

Have you seen it? What did you think?

Happy day, Patrick!

I have the coolest husband, ever. And on this, his namesake day, I thought I’d tell everybody who stumbles across this blog about it. We met about five years ago, in between years of college, when I was his supervisor at a summer job. I was naughty and assigned him to every job that I knew I’d be working, because I had a crush on him. Early on in our courtship he asked me if I had ever experienced “the lion”. I blushed profusely, as I tend to do, and soon came to realize that Patrick is a crazy perverted bastard.

But that’s part of the appeal.

We broke up a couple of times along the way, partly due to the fact that we are two of the most stubborn people I know. But the ego has a way of deteriorating with time (if you work at it) so we always ended up gratefully back together.

Then one spring day, as we were taking a walk through our neighborhood, we decided to get married. So we did, last October. And our relationship keeps getting stronger, deeper, more fluid with every passing day. (Sorry about the sap, everyone, but we wouldn’t have Maple Syrup were it not for the sap!) Sometimes he becomes an extension of my consciousness and I his, and I can’t remember if we’re husband and wife or brother and sister or if each one is each…

Patrick is the only man I’ve ever known who has encouraged me to shave my head bald. He’s the only guy I’ve met who is a better feminist than I am. Patrick wishes I wouldn’t wear makeup. He thinks my biceps are sexy. He boils water for me to fill up our giant bathtub when I take an hour-long bath and the water gets cold. He doesn’t accept “no” or “I can’t” and he’s the only person who has consistently been able to challenge my notions of right and wrong without being condescending or self-righteous.

So, Patrick, happy day, I am so lucky to be married to you!

I'm sick.

I woke up with a scratchy throat, puffy eyes and a headache as big as Texas. So I immediately went back to sleep. All morning I dozed, it was wonderful. (Except the times when I woke up feeling horrible.) I had to come in this afternoon though, client appointments that I couldn't cancel because they don't have phones. And it's been really busy so far.

My head is like a big bubble, disconnected from my neck and I kind of feel like I'm not really here anyway. Like Ed Norton's copy of a copy of a copy in Fight Club.

Anyway, think you're not getting paid what you're worth? Read this article, and you'll really get pissed off. The shitty thing is that Oberlin's President is down on the list. Keep scrolling, you'll find her. All this and Oberlin is in the middle of a budget crisis, laying off janitors and administrative staff. Bullshit I say!

Also, read the Anonymous blog today, it is masterful in its accuracy. Everytime the delivery guy marvels at my ability to move around a fully-loaded pallet jack, I will think of you Anonymous, and smile. We haven't all been brainwashed by this culture's ridiculous gender socialization!

I think I'm gonna go take some tylenol.

Crap-stop blues

So, the guitar playing is going pretty well. I’m trying to learn new chords every night, and the calluses on my fingertips are coming along bravely. One problem I’m running into, though, is that the guitar I’m playing is a piece of shit. Seriously. 6E is never, and I mean never, in tune. This is just something I’ve learned to compensate for. (Heh!) The neck sort of looks like it might break off, and I noticed that a brace-like thingy on the inside of the body is cracked. Yes, that’s right, it’s a piece of shit. But I already said that.

So! My good people! I am in the market for a new guitar. And it’s really exciting! I haven’t purchased a new musical instrument since high school and I’m feeling all giddy about it. But I need your help. There are five gazillion acoustic guitars out there… where does one start? If you have any advice on what kind to buy, why to buy it, what your favorite is, et cetera, please leave a comment about it and I will love you forever.

I swear.

Maybe I’ll even write a song about you and post it for all to hear. (Well, all three of you who read this, anyway…)

in between, something.

We had a snowstorm last night, lots of dense packing snow, it's beautiful and I'm cracked out on too much coffee and breakfast cake. Tomorrow is our food distribution and I spent the whole morning moving cases of food, crashing into shelves with the pallet jack, drinking coffee and laughing. A lot. I feel giddy today for some reason.

Please, read this blog, I found it very well written. And it made me laugh.

I am listening to:


And things, for now, could not be better.

What's an eoty?

It’s been awhile and I have no excuse for it other than I’ve been increasingly lazy about the internet and have spent far less time online. My friends, I have decided to teach myself how to play the guitar. For real. I’ve had a guitar for ages, but can’t do anything more than strum two muted and atonal sounding chords. So, watch out! If anybody has any tips on learning, or a lesson book to buy, or what have you… you know… let me know about it.

And also I’m building a dining room table, training for a 5k, trying to save the world via this town’s low income population, bench pressing 100 lbs, and not taking no bullshit from nobody, no how! Never stop the self-improvement!

Can I add more exclamations?! You know I can!!!

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Also, I see him in the gym. Often.

Lil' heavy for a Friday.

I began tearing through the March/April issue of Mother Jones as soon as it arrived. I made my way to an article on how the conservative Right has claimed the moral high ground, and why the liberal Left lost the fight for it. As I read, I came across this:

“Nihilism begins with the spectacle of people who have been so badly flogged by the system that they can inspire only compassion or contempt but never comradeship. You might take a food basket to the doorstep, but you wouldn’t think of stepping through the door.

To be honest, I have begun to lose patience with ‘compassion,’ be it the conservative version that sees poverty as a moral disease to be cured with a benevolent dose of 19th-century rectitude, or the liberal version that views poverty as an exotic culture to be scrutinized through the kindly lens of tolerance. Poverty is not a culture to be understood; it is a condition to be eradicated.”

And I find myself unable to finish the article because the sentences above form a statement that is so perfect, is true with such simplicity, that I’m afraid it might be spoiled by any further elucidation.

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From time to time people who mean well will come into the office with some food to donate, some clothes they no longer wear (it seems that everyone has a box of cast-off clothing in the basement, reserved for those less fortunate), and occasionally a monetary offering. The lobby functions less like a waiting area, and more like a moral repository for those of us who are better off; I’ve given to the community center this year, I’ve done what I could for the poor. Clean, quick, discreet.

And this way of thinking is also corrupting my brain.

I think I'm in love.

Friends, acquaintances, and all of you random "next blog" button pushers, please get a load of this.

And if he ran for President I'd vote for him as many times as I could.

A shimmy and a shake.

The low-frequency din of a room full of electronic cardiovascular equipment all running; machines plugged into the wall, people plugged into the machines, gears turning, fans blowing, fluorescent light bulb buzz hiding behind the metallic cacophony. We had a snowstorm last night, couldn’t run outside, well I could have, but my constitution is more like Ivan Drago and less like Rocky Balboa. (I didn’t want my fingertips to get cold.)

Went to the gym, plugged myself in with the others, pressed the giant green “on” button on the treadmill and started running. A second story vantage point, looking down on passerby, a hardly busy street covered in snow and the darkness of evening. Right foot down, jump, left foot down, jump, right foot down, jump, left foot down, running on a treadmill is so different than running on the street.

After five minutes I begin to internalize the rhythm of the machine, the gears, the whirring of the track’s loop. I try to blur my brain the same way I blur my eyes, I take all the sounds and make a cadence of them, to match my stride. Gaze fixed on a hubcap across the street, half buried in snow, broken up and muddy. My run the endless pursuit of that hubcap. Someone walks past, outside, distracts my attention and I follow them, with my eyes. My body starts to feel tired, my stride a little strained, and then I remember the hubcap, the noise, the whirring, I readjust my gaze and again I’m part of the machine.

In my mind I play with the muscles that are doing the work. I imagine my hip flexors as being the only part of my body that’s capable of lifting my legs; instead of the thighs pulling, the caves pushing, the hips take over and in one graceful and momentous stretch, lift up the entire length of my leg. Down again, up again, down again bending, stretching, lifting, gliding. The hum of the track, the beat of my footsteps.

In my mind I go over the length of my spine, straighten it, strengthen it, lean slightly forward, imagine that gravity is pulling me, give my stride over to the tides and to inertia. I pull my forearms in, loosen up my hands, imagine myself as a boxer, weaving in and out, ducking and bobbing, sticking and darting.

Another passerby, another distraction, my gaze wanes and I feel tired, my stride breaks up. I am not part of the machine anymore.

But this time the clock lets me know that there is someone else waiting for the machine, always another person in the wings, an endless stream of young bodies clamoring to burn more calories, make a stomach tighter, lose the flab in the ass.

My legs are mutinous when I jump off the treadmill; in the half hour that we’re allotted they’ve grown used to the rhythm of the track, to the strangeness of not exactly propelling themselves forward. They wiggle and they waver and I feel as if the entire room is sliding sideways. And I vow to stick to the streets and trails when the snow melts.

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Do you know the muffin man?

It snowed again last night, couple inches, a dusting at this point.

I’m sitting at my desk, unable to get absolutely anything done. Sometimes I find myself staring out of the always-opened door, focusing on the leaves of the ficus plant in the distance, powerless to track down my thoughts and remember what it was that I had been thinking. Other times I find myself contented by a drawing that I am in the middle of working on. God don’t let my boss come in today. It makes me wonder if there have actually been documented cases of psychogenic fugue, or if it exists only as the therapist’s wet dream.

And the lines of words begin to slant and fall off of the page.

This morning I didn’t bring coffee in. Mostly because I am lazy but partly as a way of protesting. Protesting what, I don’t know. Maybe protesting that I’m the only who brings in coffee and everyone drinks it and then the pot is emptied and I’m left scrubbing out the grounds at the end of the day. (My resistance has come to this.) So it’s 11:30 and I notice that there’s coffee in the pot, someone else made coffee, and that makes me a jackass. So I take my mug and I drain the coffee that is left in the carafe, mix in the cream until the liquid in my cup is nice and caramel colored, and take my treasure back into my office.

Then I take a sip. And I should have known. One of the interns found the Folgers that’s been in the back of the fridge for an eon, and brewed up some ill java with it. The muck tastes like it’s been preserved in formaldehyde, or perhaps is some cruel blend of Sanka and potting soil. This coffee was made with beans that never knew a day in the shade, that were never caressed by the loving hands of its grower, that were probably freeze-dried and vacuum sealed.

Coffee is important, and so is the caffeine that it delivers. Life is far too short to be pacified by BAD coffee, especially BAD east coast (or midwest!) coffee. For a start, click here, and sample a pound. I recommend the Organic French Roast.



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