Almost Famous

Just watched Almost Famous again. The movie I resisted so mightily when Tee-Hee insisted ... resisted, despite her insistence ... despite the fact that my sister got it for me that year for Christmas, as I had requested, and it sat it my DVD cabinet for months ... and again, the film made me smile.

And not just because it ended with me feeling rather like William Miller, as always, but because it is a great film.

Two of my favorite quotes from this one (and there are several):

“Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid.” (William’s mom, quoting Goethe)

“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.” (Lester Bangs, who reminds me so much of my friend Brett that it is not even funny)

: )

I feel as if I live for Fridays. And weekends simply are not long enough.

Sometimes, I wish I had just enough money to take 2 years off from work. And it would not take much. And I would commit myself to writing, 24/7 ... except during the occasional times I would take day trips, or weekend trips, or maybe even weeks-at-a-time trips to all the places in the United States that I want to see. To be. OK, I would limit myself to 5 places, though there are probably actually hundreds, if I ever sat down and made a list of them all ... but it does not matter because of course I would not have enough money to do anything but write and write and write.

That is probably just an excuse, that 2-year thing, but I would like to give it a try. Not because of necessity or because of illness or the illness of a loved one or anything, just because one day I decided I was going to stay at home instead of going to work, and suddenly, I just started writing and could not stop.

I always think that is what happened to someone like Monet. Except with him, it was painting.

I remember seeing his paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago, and we went one of the first few days of the opening of his exhibit, and the place was absolutely packed, and I found myself getting pissed because, as I walked through the line, past the paintings, people were pushing and shoving, and sometimes I could not even get a good look at a particular piece of work because I was shorter than some of the people in front of me, and so finally, I decided to step back, way back, from the rest of the group. Clear into the middle of the room. And suddenly, all of those colors and images and what-have-you of the paintings became sharp and clear, all because of the distance I had put between myself and the work.

Many of the paintings were shown in series; for example, Wheatstacks, which, truthfully, have always reminded me of bran muffins (Top o’ the Muffin to You!). And from what I could see, Monet just kept painting and kept painting and kept painting the wheatstacks ’til he got ’em right. Or maybe until he got tired of ’em, who knows?

Whatever the case, I am compelled to add some shots from Giverny 2001.



Window



Daisies



Turkeys and Watering Can

: )

Thanks to clouds, I missed the lunar eclipse. Missed the full moon rise last night, too, but managed to stare at its bright whiteness for a bit. Tonight, just as bright.

Wind is picking up; all the leaves will be gone by weekend’s end. October’s end.

New month. New moon sometime soon. New me?

Nah.

: )

I cannot beLIEVE I waited 39 years to get me a down comforter (reversible, at that). OK, so I never would’ve thought to get myself a down comforter when I was a kid, or even as a teen, but what’s my excuse for waiting all this time, wasting these last 17 or 18 years?

It’s like having a whole new bed. Which was already THE most comfortable bed on the entire planet.

(Time for me to head there.)

Red Socks RULE!

2004 World Series
Boston def. St. Louis, 4-0

I would pout if I could, but Boston deserved the championship. Better luck next year, Cardinals ... but you are going to have to get past the Cubs first!

: )

I have found 3 reasons to root for the new world champs:

1. Manny Ramirez (a.k.a. Man-Ram). I could watch the replay of him missing that ball while kicking up a divot before doing a face plant in left field in Game 2 ALL NIGHT, and it would NEVER cease to make me laugh out loud! Bottom-line, though: The guy can hit. And throw. WTF, he goes from being on the trading block to being the Series MVP!

2. Hearing these words uttered behind me whilst I was standing in line for hot dogs and a Coke at the concessions stand (obviously from a Boston fan; I am writing this as phonetically as I can): “It’s gonna be a low-scahrin’ squeakah ... the Cahds are gonna get somethin’ goin’!” I could see myself moving to Boston JUST so I could pick up that accent!

3. My mom calls them the Red Socks in our AOL chats. For some reason, I just LOVE that! (I think she pluralized them as Red Soxs a time or two. She is so charming sometimes ... espec. since she agreed to root for the Cubs next season!)

: )

LOST!

No, I am not talking about the new alleged hit series, Lost, on ABC. Yes, I am talking about my Over the Rhine Films for Radio CD that I have been looking for, for oh, about the last half hour or so. To no avail. Which is driving me NUTS, especially since I absolutely KNOW I just saw it, somewhere, recently. I mean, I can visualize the red coat on the cover, and I seem to remember thinking, hmmm, this is not where it should be ...

And now, here I am. Or rather, there it is: LOST!

I can see how people go completely mad: It comes from having misplaced something and being utterly unable to locate it. And to think, just this morning, at work, I casually asked if anyone there had ever looked and looked and looked for something, only to find it, several minutes later, in your own HAND??!

I can remember doing that one time with one of my favorite dolls, or rather, one of my favorite doll pets, this little black bear with green sunglasses on (!) whom we called Beary (original, eh?). This was during Outdoor Barbie Season, so all of the dolls and clothes and cars and other assorted crap had been hauled outside, out to the trunk and roots of the biggest maple tree on the boulevard (there were 3 maple trees there, back then; now there is 1), where Barbie and Ken and Big Jim and Josh and Steve Austin and Gary and all the others lived, during the summer months. I looked and looked for Beary (he belonged to Gary, who was actually one of the miniature Barbies, part of the Dawn dolls set, but he was about half the size of regulation-sized Barbie and Ken, so we pretended he was their son ... even though his sideburns were longer than those on Malibu Ken ... but not longer than those on Mod Hair Ken ... when Mod Hair Ken was in Full Facial Hair Mode, that is), and finally, after just about giving up on my search, I looked down, and there he was. In my hand. The whole time!

: )

So I have given up on Films for Radio, for now. As I searched through my somewhat organized chaotic CD collection, though, I had to smile. I like my music. I realize, though, that I have not even listened to some of my music; I actually have a few CDs that are still in their plastic wrap. Can you even believe that??! I cannot.

And Christmas is JUST around the corner ... hmmm ...

I also realize I have no idea how many CDs I have. I do know I have several CDs. Not enough to qualify as an overwhelming amount, but more than some people have. And far less than others have. I also have a couple of CDs by people I have barely even heard of.

I find it ironic that I have a CD by Elliott Smith called Happiness. Not ironic that I have the CD, just ironic that Elliott would actually record an album by that name. I seem to recall buying it from a bargain bin at one of the chain music stores; I do not believe I have ever listened to it. (I adore his songs on the Good Will Hunting soundtrack.)

: )

This morning, we received a call from someone who had seen a deer running through the public square. Which would obviously be quite strange if it occurred in Times Square, but in a small, somewhat rural community like this one ... well, it is not the strangest thing that has ever happened on our square, I can assure you. So, anyway, one of our reporters (who is actually our only reporter, now that I think about it) heads off to the square, which is approximately half a block from the news office.

This call comes in whilst I am in the bathroom, so I am apprised of the situation upon my return to my desk. At which point I head to the back door, from which I can see the square, and our reporter, who by this time is trudging back to the news office because she has not seen any sign of a deer. She tells me she is going to take her car to go look for it, and because she also has an appointment to shoot another photo in just a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later, I get a call from a woman who lives about six blocks from the news office: An eight-point buck has just run head-on into her chain-link/cyclone fence, broken his neck and died. Right there in her driveway.

Obviously, the poor deer was lost.

All the leaves are brown ...

Well, maybe not all the leaves.





And, in fact, the sky is not gray, but a nice shade of pastel blue.

More later. I have some things on my mind.

Baseball

The past few days have been all about baseball.

Buying tickets to the NLDS, the NLCS and ... the World Series! Making plans. Going to games. Watching the Cardinals win. Talking about the games afterwards. Waking up tired. Looking forward to the next game.

Feeling gooooooood.

: )

And underneath it all, I am not even a Cardinals fan. OK, we have discussed this before: I am a Cubs fan. But I officially wrote them off this season, the last week of the season, after threatening to do so all season long. From the time I heard them talking about the playoffs, in April, to the time I saw them play a thoroughly lackluster game against the Cardinals in June (or maybe it was July?), to the time I heard them trying to blame their lack of success on the WGN announcers. Capped by the boneheaded moves by a couple of their pitchers, and finished off by their complete team-wide fizzle at the end of the season.

Matter of fact, I have written them off for next season, too.

I am not saying I will not consider getting behind them again, but I need more from them than I am getting. I do not mind if they are mediocre to awful but try hard; I cannot BEAR if they are loaded with talent and play like a bunch of putzes. And act like a bunch of whiny-ass crybabies.

So, there.

The Cardinals, on the other hand, have not failed to amaze me all season long. They are fun to watch and they act like professionals (mostly), and they seem to enjoy themselves. Which is what it is all about, really: They play BASEBALL. The best game there is. Period.

Mostly, I like them because of my friends. And because of my dad.

And because it has been 17 years since the Cardinals last went to the World Series.

And the last time they went, my dad was alive.

And for the life of me, I do not remember discussing any of the games with him. I do not even remember much about the 1987 World Series, in fact, except that the Minnesota Twins won it. In seven games, I believe. And that Kirby Puckett might have made a rather spectacular catch somewhere along the line, possibly in center field ... but again, my memory fails me right now. And I have no desire to google it all and find out. Not right now, anyway.

What I remember about 1987, around about World Series time, was that I had moved to this town and started my job about 3 months earlier. As a news/feature writer/photographer. And shortly thereafter became the sports editor. So when the Cards made the World Series, I am sure I went to some tavern, somewhere, and took pictures of people watching one of the games.

I do not remember watching much of them myself because I was still trying to settle in. And I was running back and forth to see my college buddies on weekends. So I likely missed Games 1 & 2 and 6 & 7, unless they happened to be on TVs in any of the bars I visited during either of my weekend jaunts to my college town during that time.

And so the Cardinals lost, and the only conversation I remember having with my father was the one when his friend drove him down to my apartment, late one night, after I had been at the state fair (which is not THE actual state fair, but sort of a state fair for this portion of the state, as if this state is so large that it needs 2 state fairs) watching Three Dog Night and The Beach Boys. (I went to see The Beach Boys but left with a new appreciation of Three Dog Night after realizing I knew every one of their songs, but had not realized they were the ones who sang them!) And this would have been a couple of months before the World Series, anyway.

And actually, I do not remember that conversation with my father. I only remember that he was drunk, and that I told him I needed to get to bed because I had to work the next day, and that he would have to leave. That was the only time he came to my town, to my apartment, and my visits to The Ville were far and few between, too, so we probably did not see each other more than a half-dozen or so times over the next 3½ years.

Which makes me sad, right now, and fills me with regret.

[You do not regret the things you do; you regret the things you do not do.]

The last baseball conversation I really remember with my dad was after the Cardinals had lost the 1985 World Series. And they had it WON, baby, before getting totally, undeniably robbed on a bad call at first base in Game 6. (I am pretty sure it was Game 6; again, I was not watching all that closely, and it has been many years since then.) And then they went on to lose Game 7, which meant the Kansas City Royals were the World Series champions.

I remember calling my dad, or maybe he had called me (probably he called me), and I laughed about how the Cardinals had lost. I laughed about the bad call and said I was glad they had lost, and he tried to shrug it off. I remember making a pretty big deal about it, the way, in years since, people have made a pretty big deal about how horrible the Cubs are, or how funny it is, during the seasons when they have actually made a postseason run, when they end up blowing it, as they inevitably always do.

[The real difference between the Cardinals and the Cubs, I have discovered, is simple: When you watch the Cardinals, you always expect something good to happen; when you watch the Cubs, you always expect something bad to happen.]

When I think back to that phone conversation with my father in 1985, which I have quite a bit over these past few weeks, I wish I could take back those words. I do not want to be the person who kicks another when he or she is down; I do not want to pile on, adding my own injurious words to the insult.

And so, now, when I watch these grown men playing the best game in the world, baseball, I think of my dad. I wonder which current Cardinals player he would like best ... and then I realize, I do not even know which Cardinals player, from all the years he had watched them, was his favorite. (I do know that he threatened to write off the team when they traded Keith Hernandez, and I am thinking Dad had a bit of a thing for Joaquin Andujar, too. And how could he have not loved Ozzie Smith? And I seem to remember, somewhere in my not-so-reliable memory, that he took us to see Bob Gibson at least once ... but what about Stan the Man? And all of the other players that Dad had watched when he was a kid, and a teen-ager, and a man in his 20s and 30s and very very early 50s, before he left?)

He would love how Albert Pujols and Scott Rolen hit. And how Rolen and Edgar Renteria knock down every ball hit their direction. And how Steve Kline and Julian Tavarez are just a little off, most of the time. And how Mike Matheny is a wall, defensively.

Mostly, though, after watching Jim Edmonds hit the game-winning home run in Game 6 of the National League Championship Series and make the game-winning catch in Game 7, I believe Edmonds would have been his favorite player on this Cardinals team.

I regret that I do not know these things for certain about my dad.

And so, when I watch these games, from the not-so-cheap cheap seats at Busch Stadium or in the comfort of my living room, I am trying to imagine how my father would feel. And I am allowing myself to feel the excitement and the nervousness and the joy that you feel when the team you love competes at this time of year, at the time when every hit, every run, every out is important.

And I realize it is about so much more than baseball.

Go, Cardinals!

What can this be?

You tell me. Take a guess.

Rainy Days and Mondays

I actually heard that song today. Followed by “Goodbye to Love,” at least I think that is the name of the song, a Carpenters “two-fer Monday,” as opposed to the usual Tuesday. And it was not actually raining at the time when I heard “Rainy Days and Mondays,” but it had been.

And then it poured tonight, but instead of being reminded of the Carpenters (loved her voice, btw), I thought of this line from “Time” by Tom Waits (and when I hear it, Tori Amos is singing it):

The band is going home
It’s raining hammers, it’s raining nails
Yes, it’s true, there’s nothing left for him down here ...

Tonight, while leaving The Lovely’s, after the rain had finally subsided enough for me to venture to my car, when I got to the end of her driveway, I sat and watched the storm far off.

Overhead, I know there is a patch of clear black sky, dotted by an occasional star. To the right is a fingernail moon, covered some by gray clouds. To the left (east) and straight ahead (south), big thunderheads, silhouetted by every lightning flash, roll across the horizon, puffy clouds lit up from behind. Jim Morrison sings, “Come on, baby, light my fire,” on the oldies station before the tornado warning for Pope County (three over from Franklin) interrupts.

New Specs

I got new glasses. Got ’em on right now. Had to surrender my old ones, at least for a few days ’cause I’m gettin’ new lenses in them, also. So I, for the first time in my life, will have a spare pair, each with my current prescription. Thus, for now, I have on the new Nautica ... hmm, I have no idea what style they are, and, truthfully, I had no idea they were Nautica frames, even, until I went to pay for them.

Not saying anything for or against the brand. I once bought a Nautica shirt, actually, despite the fact that it cost $89 (which I did not have). It was simply one of those items I had to have. A must-have, if you will. I tend to like their T-shirts, also, now that I like sailing. Or at least, now that I have actually been sailing.

: )

Here is a partial depiction of me in my new glasses. This is the first pair of plastic-framed glasses that I have had since ... well, in a long long time. I switched to wire rims several years ago, and there was no looking back for me, baby. None at all! However, this time, when I was picking out frames, I wanted something ... bolder. Something ... unlike my other frames. Something ... dare I say, somewhat dorky? I mean, after all, I AM a dork; what’s wrong with looking like one??!

: )

I have worn glasses since 4th grade. Only for reading, then, until 7th, when I had to start wearing them all the time. Switched to contacts my senior year of h.s. and wore them all through college and into My Adult Years. Switched back to glasses when I realized I just didn’t want to fuck with contacts any longer. Got contacts again in early 2002 but never gave up glasses. (Too convenient.)

More later, maybe. Just had to run out and take a picture of a Mustang whose driver had tried to take on a utility pole. (No contest, really.) Plus Barefoot Contessa is on and I cannot tear myself away, and besides, it is almost dinnertime, in spite of what the post time might say.

A Bit of a Snit

I am in one of those moods. One of those moods that has been brewing for days, like a warm cup of tea on a frosty winter morning. (As if I drink tea. Well, I do, occasionally, but only iced tea, with extra ice. Hot or even warm tea reminds me of being sick. Tea and toast: Breakfast of sicklies. So, maybe, the analogy is not all that great. Whatever.)

I have decided that hollow promises mean nothing to me. And if you cannot take someone at his or her word, what is there?

Be impeccable with your word.

I have struggled with that, myself. At times. And in various manifestations. At the moment, I am intolerant of others who do not live up to this agreement.

I like follow-through. I like seeing a project through from its conception (or should that be inception?) to its successful completion ... or bitter end. I like to be a priority, but I do not need to be in the spotlight.

Hmm, what other things do I like?

I like to win, but mainly, I like to compete. I like the fact that I can throw a perfect spiral AND a strike, even if I have no clue how to throw a curveball or a splitter. And that I can switch-hit, with equal success from both sides of the plate. I like that the kids enjoyed the game I invented today called Fumble more than our attempts at running actual football plays. I like that I am imaginative enough to look at the backyard and visualize where the 20-yard line would be, if this were a real football field (scale-wise).

I like weekends.

I do not like Mondays.

It's only words ...

I believe I come here to think. To sort things out, occasionally. To reflect on the day that has just ended (I usually write at night, though the post-thingie does not always reflect that; for example, sometimes I will start a post at, say, 10:57 p.m. but not finish it until sometime after midnight, yet the post will still go down as 10:57 p.m. ... which I suppose is misleading or incorrect, but not intentionally so ... although I could change the time AND date, if I so chose, but ... hell, I am anal enough about tiny little inconsequential things as it is). Or to record some of my thoughts right now, as they are occurring.

And, see, just as I was writing about all that, I actually FORGOT what I came here to write about.

Oh, yeah: I took an online quiz a little earlier (I will not link to it, but here is the name: Which Animal Spirit Totem Are You?), then I asked one of my pals for some input. And no, it was NOT cheating because this was the question:

Your friends describe you as ...

And these were the possible answers:

devoted, caring, a natural leader, stable, successful, smart, imaginative, brave, strong, driven, well liked

So, since I happened to be chatting with Tee-Hee at the time, I gave her the burden of choosing the answer. I mean, she IS my friend, after all; in fact, I have known her since kindergarten, and we were acquaintances (and occasional fellow birthday-party invitees) throughout grade school and junior high, and then we became Best Friends freshman year. We went through the roller-coaster ride of high school, kept in touch during college, dropped in and out of touch over the next 10 to 12 years and then reconnected on a several-times-a-week basis about 6 or 7 years ago, maybe earlier.

First, though, I thought about what my choices would be, or what I thought my friends would say:

I am devoted. I am caring but could honestly care less about some things/people/ideas/ideals. I am not necessarily a leader (I blame this on being on the cusp of Aries, just 2 short days away from Taurus) ... unless you count leading by example. I am relatively stable; I mean, I have these same routines and what-not, but if you want to talk emotional stability ... well, I have had some ups and downs here and there (is this a rare thing?). I am successful by my own standards but not quite where I wanted to/thought I would be at this point in my life (though truthfully, I am not sure I have ever looked all THAT far ahead). I am smart. I am imaginative but prefer creative. I can be brave but am not sure I have ever had to be. I am strong ... but have I been tested, strength-wise? I am not driven to be anything other than what I am ... and this is likely a good/bad thing. I am well liked by people who like me, and who cares about the rest?

: )

Tee-Hee read the list, and her choice?

imaginative

I would not have expected that choice, from all the words in the list, but I was very flattered.

Then she told me should would have selected creative if that word had been on the list.

: )

Now I really really REALLY need to get busy creating!

Angel Tree

This tree reminds me of angels. I cannot decide, though, which I prefer, black & white or color, so why not post both?



Coincidentally enough, I am in the midst of watching Angels in America DVD. The film or mini-series or what-have-you is about AIDS and the mid-1980s and everyday people, and some of the performances, so far, have been incredible. (I am approximately halfway through. Just started Disc 2.)

I have a pretty good idea this show is gonna make me cry.

And I think this might be my new sig line:

“She’s not insane. She’s just peculiar.”

: )

In the midst of messing with my angel tree photo(s), I am printing some shots of Kam for The Lovely. And it pains me to no end that I cannot comfortably share those with the world because of some of the evil that exists in the world.

R.I.P., Super Man

I adored Christopher Reeve.

No, of course I did not actually know Christopher Reeve, but I adored him just the same.

In no small part because I have always loved Superman. Or at least since the days when Grandma Evelyn bought me a new Superman comic book every Saturday when we went uptown. And if we did not happen to go uptown on a particular Saturday, or if we happened not to go to her house that Saturday, then she would pick up a Superman comic book sometime during the week, and if we visited her at another time, a random Wednesday afternoon, after school, perhaps, a new comic book would be there, waiting for me to read.

Superman or Archie. Those always were my favorites. (You know, Archie: Jughead, Veronica, Betty, Reggie, Mr. Weatherbee, Miss Grundy.)

And then, when I was a little bit older (but still a kid), I ran across the stash of comics that belonged to my dad. War comics and unsolved mysteries comics, and Superman.

It is hereditary, my love of Superman.

And Christopher Reeve was The Perfect Superman. And not just because he looked the part of Superman, with those high cheekbones and perfect teeth (OK, he actually could have been a tad more muscle-y), but also because, when he put on his glasses and parted his hair on the other side (how tricky!) and bumbled around, he became The Perfect Clark Kent.

Which is why Superman II is my favorite of the Superman movies: Superman chose to give up his superpowers in order to experience true love (AND have sex!) with Lois Lane. Naturally, he had to regain the powers later in the movie in order to save the world, but in-between, he got to be a regular guy (AND have sex!).

I love a good love story, and this is one of my favorites.

Another one of my faves is Somewhere in Time, partly because of its wonderful soundtrack, but mostly because of Christopher Reeve. He plays a man who basically wills himself to go back in time (a theme I keep revisiting, in my own mind, literarily, if that is a word) in order to meet a woman. And he does meet her, and they do fall in love, and everything about it is just perfect until ... well, I would not want to ruin it for anyone who has not yet seen the film, but suffice it to say that if you ever plan on taking a trip back in time (or back to the future, I suppose), then you should make sure and EMPTY YOUR POCKETS before you go!

: )

I also loved him in Deathtrap. And not just because it is one of the first shows I ever recall seeing that had gay men (eek!) in it, but because it is, to borrow a line from J. Peterman, “a ripping good yarn.”

Christopher Reeve is the perfect example of irony.

See, many people use the word “irony” when they actually mean “coincidence.” I like to think of a coincidence as basically a happy accident, when things just happen to occur ... but true irony is when almost the exact opposite of what you would expect to happen happens, and when it does, somehow, you are not exactly shocked that it happened, even though it is not what you had expected.

Christopher Reeve played Superman. The Perfect Superhero. The Man of Steel. Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings (or, hey, just fly over them) in a single bound. Invulnerable.

And then, in an instant, Christopher Reeve became powerless ... at least in the Superman sense of powerful. Or even in the everyday human being sense of powerful. He broke his neck and injured his spinal cord, and suddenly the man who played the character with every superpower imaginable could not even breathe on his own.

But he was not really powerless, was he? No. And though he really could not move on his own, he did not exactly sit still, did he? No.

He spent the last 9 years of his life raising awareness and raising money and promoting research and working toward something better for victims of spinal cord injuries. Sensing, perhaps, that a significant breakthrough might not occur during his own lifetime; believing, though, that he would walk again one day.

If that is not optimism, I do not know what is.

When Nature Calls

So, yesterday, I decide to go leaf-hunting. See, it is beginning to look a lot like fall here, and I had heard it was going to rain, and a co-worker told me if it rained, all the leaves would fall of because it was so dry ... and well, yeah, The Weather Channel said, too, that it was going to rain. And I have yet to get a good “fall” photo, so I figure I will head out to the lake, see what I can find ... and in my mind, I have the perfect scenario pictured, trees of every color, postcard-like, blah blah blah. And I come across several scenes like this one, driving along, first past the lake and then to the state park, but I realize, eventually, that I am not going to find anything to shoot, really, unless I get out of the car. So on a warm (but not hot) day that I am glad is overcast so the shadows will not be too harsh, I decide to walk the hiking/biking trail that I last walked sometime shortly after my father died, back in 1991.

Back then, I remember thinking the path was too long, and I had no way of knowing where I would end up. And it was winter, but relatively warm, and in fact in places the ground was rather soft, and I had not thought to wear boots, so my tennis shoes (!!) got muddy.

Yesterday, too, I am wearing tennis shoes, and though the path is now graveled, I fuss at myself, just a little, because at home I have at least 3 pairs of boots/shoes that are more suitable for hiking (hard bottoms, which would keep my feet from feeling the rocks beneath my K-Swiss Ascendors that, sadly, are no longer being manufactured, so now I am going to have to find a new shoe for tennis ... but I suppose that is neither here nor there).

: )

As I walk down the path, I believe I hear rain, occasionally. I stop, and I realize the noise is not rain, rather leaves. Hitting the ground with an occasional soft Tkk! Tkk! And suddenly, I want to photograph a falling leaf. Though I know it will be difficult, I decide to give it a try as I mosey along.

In the meantime, I find:





(I almost tripped over these ... which is funny, considering I cannot even find a single morel when I hunt for them in the spring!)





And before I left, I shot this one. A falling leaf. Which reminds me of a guy I know, a little, whose name is Troy. And he goes by Falling Leaf.



And then I got another one. And then I left.



Some random thoughts on the day ...

1. I am not an outdoors kinda girl. I would like to be, but I am not. I do have hopes, someday, of living in a cabin in the woods and just writing, writing, writing all day ... in-between nature walks and what-not. I will shave my head, too ... at least during the summer.

2. As Ray Stevens says: EVERYthing is beautiful. Sometimes I do not notice until I look at something, close up ... or from far, far away. Like a Monet.

3. Pain reminds me that I am alive. Like the rocks under my tennis shoes. Or thorns across my right shin.

P.S. I like your footballs.

Went to a high school football game tonight. Or three-quarters of a h.s. football game, actually, my first in almost a year. It is Homecoming weekend in this town, and in my past life as a girl who wrote about sports on an almost-daily basis, I would have been relatively “up” for this kind of thing, but now ... now I spent almost all day not wanting to go to the game, really, except to hang out for a while with my friend Amy, who had an empty seat.

The home team lost. To the hated rival Redbirds from the town 6 miles south of this one. Oh, the humanity!

And suddenly, I am back in The Ville, half an hour or so after the Rams (the h.s. version of the Ramlets!) have just lost their Homecoming game to the rival Panthers from the town 10 miles or so west. It is fall of my senior year of high school (1982-83). Tee-Hee and I are crammed into a truck that belongs to Mike, a boy I actually had “gone with” in 7th grade who, by this time, is not even really what I would call a close friend. Mike is behind the wheel, Tee-Hee is in the middle and I am next to the window, and we are parked on school grounds, over near the junior high (home of the Ramlets!). We pass a can of beer back and forth, though I really am in no mood to drink. I really just want to get home.

“How could we have lost this game?” Mike asks us, his head in his hands, tears in his eyes. “My senior season! My last year of football! How could we let Pana beat us?”

I am as uncertain then as I am at this moment as to what the score was. I have a feeling the game was not even close; seems to me we had a horrible football team my senior year, but as far as I am concerned, we could have been 9-0. I did not care all that much, back then, about the football team.

[Oddly enough, one year later, I will return from college to watch the Homecoming game between The Ville and Hillsboro. And I will witness what I believe to be THE most exciting game I have ever seen, a 3-0 victory (or was it a loss?) by the Rams, in overtime (or was it double- or triple-OT?), and suddenly I will rue all the times that I simply did not pay attention to h.s. football.]

[Even more oddly: To this day, since I attended that game, I have not been back to a h.s. football game, let alone a Homecoming game, in my hometown.]

I have covered 9-plus high school football games each fall for the last ... umpteen years. I have covered countless playoff games for at least half of those seasons. Now, I realize I have no idea when I will see my next game.

Do I remember my first football game? Of course not. I do remember that sometime around that time period, I had a huge crush on an 8th-grade boy named Ron, a boy who had just transfered to our school district, when I was in 7th grade. I also remember that when I was in 8th grade, I and my boyfriend Ronnie (no relation to Ron), a 7th-grader, and my friend Cheri and her boyfriend Doug, also a 7th-grader, used to sneak into the varsity football games every Friday night the Rams had a home game and traipse off to the bushes just north of the field and make out for four quarters.

When I get really nostalgic for my junior high years, I really, really miss those makeout sessions.

: )

When I was in 6th grade, early in the school year, I had never kissed a boy.

Kissing was becoming quite an issue back then, though, and there were a few couples on the “Most Likely to Be Engaged in Premarital Kissing” list ... mostly because a couple of the couples (Darci and Richie, Lisa and Eric ... or maybe the other way around) had been caught kissing during recess. Those 4, along with another couple whose names escape me, were brought in for an impromptu “Kissing Intervention” one day during noon recess.

Somehow, my boyfriend Kenny and I also got roped into the intervention session ... though, at that moment in our lives, we had never even entertained the notion of locking lips, let alone gone through with it. (At least I had not, anyway; who knows about Kenny? I mean, after all, he had been to 4-H camp!)

How did we earn our special intervention invitation?

Well, Kenny and I used to write each other notes. Not “love notes,” per se, just random little letters written on blue-lined college-ruled notebook paper with such details as “Math class is totally boring today!” or “Mrs. C. must be on the rag today!” or something revealing like that (we had different homeroom teachers). I used to fold my notes, occasionally, into what we called “footballs”: little triangular packets, in the style that the American flag is folded.

One time, at the end of one of his letters, Kenny wrote:

“P.S. I like your footballs.”

Just so happens that note got confiscated by one of our teachers, “footballs” was misconstrued as being a reference to “boobies,” and Kenny and I earned our special invite to the intervention.

All I Know

I bruise you, you bruise me
We both bruise too easily
Too easily to let it show
I love you, and that’s all I know

All my plans have fallen through
All my plans depend on you
Depend on you to help them grow
I love you, and that’s all I know

When the singer’s gone
Let the song go on ...

But the ending always comes at last
Endings always come too fast
They come too fast, but they pass too slow
I love you, and that’s all I know

When the singer’s gone
Let the song go on
It’s a fine line between the darkness and the dawn
They say in the darkest night
There’s a light beyond

But the ending always comes at last
Endings always come too fast
They come too fast, but they pass too slow
I love you, and that’s all I know

That’s all I know.
That’s all I know.

(“All I Know” by Art Garfunkel)

A perfect song to close a surprisingly perfect season finale of Nip/Tuck Tuesday night. And now I have been singing this one all day. MUST find a copy of it, somewhere.

: )

Go, Cardinals!

You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself to make yourself forget.

To make yourself forget.

Too many thoughts tonight. Too many memories.

When will I find my moment again?

Tonight & Happy Little Trees

This evening I went for a drive. Looking for fall colors to shoot.

Did not find much. Yet.

As I turned onto a road to head back home, however, I saw a row of trees, all of them nearly identical in size and shape, with the sun casting yellow-gold light on their left side. I could not capture the scene on film (or rather, on ... disk?), I knew, but suddenly, I wished I could paint it. The trees. The light.

I remembered watching a man named Bob Ross on a show on PBS. He would start out, as painters do, with a blank canvas, and then, using not all that many colors, really, and just a few brushes, he would paint a scene that looked real enough to step into. He painted mountains and shrubs and clouds and rocks, and darkness and light, and grass, and in the midst of it all, he would add in some happy little trees.

And occasionally, he would use what looked to me to be an ordinary paintbrush. Like, the kind you would paint a house with ... if you were so inclined to paint a house. And he would angle the brush just so, or else he would swish it across the painting, but whatever he did with it, somehow, he created the picture he wanted to make.

After I had been watching Bob Ross for a while, I learned that he had died before I had ever started watching his show. And this made me very sad ... kind of like when I realized that the beautiful Jeff Buckley had died long before I ever heard his music, or at least before I was ever aware of his music. Or someone like Roy Orbison, who for some reason I thought had died, long ago, but of course I found out that he in fact had NOT, and then, just when he seemed to have made the ultimate comeback ... he died!

I do not paint. Or draw.

I can draw, as this picture proves. This is Bert from Sesame Street. A freehand drawing, in fact, and this is the first time I have drawn him in color! He is part of the Ernie & Bert team, of course ... but I cannot draw Ernie. Ernie, it seems, is more 3-dimensional than Bert, and I have a difficult time with that. Which makes me wonder: If someone were to paint your portrait, could she or he capture you on canvas? Are you 3-dimensional? Would the colors be right? (I have never had my portrait painted, but tonight I wondered: When someone paints or draws you, or perhaps even photographs you, and you like it, or hate it, is it because you like/hate the way you look in the picture? Is it because you believe you do not really look like you do in the picture ... or because you do?)

It is difficult for me to imagine something and draw it in full detail. A few times I have studied a photo or a scene and drawn it.

One Christmas break when I was home, I decided that I wanted to make a special gift for my friend Patti. I am not sure what possessed me, other than I knew she LOVED Bruce Springsteen (almost as much as she loved Tom Selleck), and this was not long after Born in the U.S.A. came out. I had the album, and I decided I was going to do a pencil drawing of the album cover: A back view of The Boss, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, with a faded red hat sticking out of his back pocket.

I used a sketch pad and sort of sectioned off the page and basically did a scale drawing of the cover. I had never attempted anything like this before, and I am not sure what kept me working on it, other than I wanted to give it to her. I remember thinking it was kind of cool how many different shades and textures I could get, and how I could smooth out the rough spots ... and now, when I think back to the process of drawing that picture, I really really like that I sort of figured it all out for myself, as I went along. (I especially liked drawing the details of his belt. Not sure why, except that it was the most intricate part of the picture.)

I think my muse is trying to tell me something, and I believe I need to apply this process to my writing.

I do not know, exactly, how to go about getting all of these characters and stories and words into any kind of order, to paint the portrait I need to paint. Somehow, though, the adventure of it all is becoming quite real to me now.

Today

Today I am all about baseball: Watching the St. Louis Cardinals, who are pummeling the Los Angeles Dodgers 8-2 in the 6th inning. Five homers already. And I have DIscovered the cure for my baseball woes of late: I shall root for the Cubbies during the regular season, and then root for the Cards during the postseason.

Because, what the fuck: The Cubs are not actually going to MAKE the postseason for another few years, anyway, and even if they do? Not like they are going to make the World Series or anything ... let alone win the damn thing.

Perhaps I will switch my allegiance to the Cardinals entirely. I admit I really like watching them play ... and Dad. My dad would have LOVED this team. Yes, he would have questioned every move by Tony LaRussa (last time we spoke, he still had not forgiven them for getting rid of Whitey Herzog ... nor for trading Keith Hernandez), but he would have loved the way this team plays. As do I.

The older I get, the more I understand his connection to this team. And the more I want to carry that on, somehow. Almost as if there is a little part of him, in me, that is still alive and cheering with every Redbird victory.

: )

Today I am all about the fact that we are having perfect fall weather in Southern Illinois: Bright sun, bluest of blue sky, leaves right on the verge of displaying their most perfect red, orange and yellow. Sun shining in my window as I type-type-type (earlier, I was surf-surf-surfing eBay, looking for tickets, and more tickets). Before that, me, puttering and organizing and cleaning to work off some nervous energy early in the game, which is coming in perfectly on my very non-HDTV, un-flatscreen TV. My portable electric heater takes the chill out of the air because, am I going to even THINK about cranking up the furnace on October 5?

HELL no!

: )

Today I am ready to post a few pictures from 3 summers ago. Mainly because I have decided that the windmills in Kansas (and parts of Central Illinois, I recently discovered), and the hilly, grassy terrain, reminded me, just a little, of The Netherlands. And who would have expected that? Not I.

Windmills at Zans Saans



Bird, Interrupting, as Horses Graze



Mailbox at Zans Saans



Today I am feeling better, physically. Amazing what a difference it makes when you can actually breathe through your nose. Not a lot to ask, really, but still. Quite refreshing, really.

Final score: Cardinals 8, Dodgers 3; Cardinals lead the NLDS 1-0.

: )

Lord, It's Hard to Be Humble

When there are photos like this in existence, of yourself. (Yes, I AM the one wearing the blue dress.)



Is it Tuesday yet??!

I need to remember this ...

So, baby, give me just one kiss
Let me take a long last look
Before we say goodbye.

Just lay your head back on the ground
Let your hair fall all around me
Offer up your best defense
This is the end of the innocence.

(From “The End of the Innocence” by Don Henley)

Got that song in my head today, just as I had it in there on the way back from Chicago. Never really listened to it, closely, until a few years ago when a friend of mine was going through a particularly harsh, nasty DIvorce ... which made “since Daddy had to fly/lie” especially apropos. Great tune, and combined with “The Boys of Summer,” means that Dandy Don is directly responsible for two of my all-time favorite songs, ever.

Just got Wal-Marted, a little. Went out there seeking Angels in America DVD, in no small part because of such high recommendations from my film sensei (though I keep wanting to call the film Angels in the Outfield, which apparently is an altogether different movie!) regarding the performance of Mary-Louise Parker. Whom I adore. And I managed to pick up the Star Wars Trilogy, also, just because. Widescreen edition, of COURSE. And I even glanced at flat-screen TVs whilst I was in Electronics, and a greatest hits album by Dean Martin (yes, I loved him) and “Live in San Quentin/Folsum Prison” CDs by Johnny Cash, but passed. For now.

I did manage to buy the snazzy new toilet-brush thingie (opted for the Clorox model over the Scrubbing Bubbles one ... which I might end up regretting) and various other domestic items. And spaghetti fixin’s, and various other food items. I also realized I have developed a fondness for soda pop (I never actually call it “soda pop,” but since I have spent the first 20 years of my live calling it “pop” and the second 20 calling it “soda,” I decided to cover all bases) in those 8-ounce cans.

I also admitted to myself, finally, that my favorite feature of the relatively new Wal-Mart SuperCenter in my town (it is not actually MY town, but a suburb of the town I live in ... if a place can be considered a town or a suburb if it does not even have its own zip code and goes by a generic name like “East Village” or something like that) is the Self Checkout Lane. Not because I save any time, really, but because I have never actually worked retail, and I think I enjoy getting to ring up my own groceries (and various other items) once every couple of weeks or so.

And possibly because I enjoy the lack of interpersonal communication. Though I invariably end up having to call over one of the assistants to help me out with some kind of scanner issue (today it was desensitizing the security strips in the DVDs).

I do not feel all that well. Perhaps because it is fucking freezing here. Well, OK, 51 degrees, but it was in the 30s overnight. Not in here, of course, but outside, which meant it got a bit chilly inside. And me, unwilling to light the pilot and crank up the furnace, and not quite smart enough to remember that I have a portable electric heater (2 of them, actually, but I think one of them is broken) tucked neatly away, in storage, in the closet of my studio. Which is actually the spare bedroom.

(I have too much STUFF. Time for another MAJOR cleaning binge.)

Kansas

I had never been to Kansas before last weekend. Truthfully, I had never wanted to go to Kansas. Not that I had anything against Kansas; I mean, honestly, how could you even get worked up about a state like Kansas? Don’t get me wrong: I am not bashing Kansas (as a lifelong resident of Illinois, how could I even think about criticizing Kansas, anyway?).

It’s just that, in the whole scheme of Places I’d Like to Visit, even if I were to narrow it down to Places in the Midwestern United States (That Don’t Start with the Letter I) I’d Like to Visit, Kansas probably wouldn’t’ve even been in the Top 10.

And I have to admit, I was expecting the worst.

Well, not the worst. That would be Nebraska, the state which made my pal Patti say, “Oh, I wanna go THERE!” as she was looking at the Rand McNally road atlas. We were playing the states ’n’ capitals game whilst we were traveling to Fernandina Beach, Fla., back in 1989, and then Patti got a look at Nebraska, all of its roads going straight across or up-and-down, all parallel or perpendicular.

I was expecting much of the same from Kansas, and total flatness, but I was wrong.

I drove through a section of Kansas that had hills and grass and windmills and cows, and as I drove along, I could see for miles, in some places, and only the tops of the hills around me in other places. And a couple of times, I could see a road, ahead, in the distance ... only to realize it was the same road I was driving on, a few miles ahead.

As if I could see into the (slightly interrupted by hills) future ...

And on the drive back to Illinois, when I was still in Kansas and entering a town I don’t remember the name of, I looked to my right and saw corn fields. Just like the corn fields in Illinois ... only these corn fields, as the sun shone on them and the light hit the leaves on the corn stalks, were actually shining. Shimmering, like gold.

Honest to God: Gold.

It was amazing, and everyone in the van was asleep. And I couldn’t reach my camera, plus I couldn’t’ve taken a shot whilst driving, anyway, and it probably wouldn’t’ve turned out, but it was very cool.

I kept looking at the corn fields in Illinois today when I was driving home from Chicago, but no gold.