Happy Halloween

Time: 8:17
Number of coworkers totally baffled and convinced by my tattoo sleeves: 3

i just made this up

"Creativity is nothing more than resourcefulness set to music."

There's a certain very Michael Scott-y part of me that says things that sound good but don't actually make any sense. i'm not sure if this makes sense, but it sounds like it should. So. This is what you can reply to the next person who complains that they're not creative, which is bull because every person on earth is creative.

Pandora

i was recently introduced to Pandora, and i've loved it all week except that right now P and i have reached that point in the relationship where the honeymoon blinders come off and we realize we didn't know each other as well we initially thought we did and we don't actually value ALL the same things like we initially thought and it's very jarring. i think it's just a spell.
Back it up for the fogies and musically/internetally-challenged: Pandora is a website that functions as a radio and uses the Music Genome Project to analyze the artists or songs you type in to offer you a selection of songs with melody, harmony, instrumentation, rhythm, vocals, lyrics, etc that align with your entry. Then you mark each offered song with a thumbs up or a thumbs down and it adjusts its offerings accordingly.
OR DOES IT? Because i watched La Vie En Rose last night and am consequently enamored with the late Edith Piaf, so i entered her name and got a nice selection of Edith, Pink Martini, Dinah Washington, and several artists i would never have discovered on my own. It was all well and good until my new 'station' took a turn for the worse, down a shady little street called 'Broadway' and into the musical territory. BLECH. i'm okay with the occasional musical, but i prefer my characters to be morally-challenged and to spontaneously break into gritty or interesting songs, a la RENT, Chicago, Sweeney Todd or to some extent, Moulin Rouge. What Pandora has been offering up for the last hour has hardly been thus. Carousel, Annie Get Your Gun, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang..... NO THANK YOU. i've given thumb downs (thumbs down? thumbs downs?) to each and every 'musical' song but it keeps pumping them into my queueue! Boo! i don't want anything from any character described as 'plucky' or 'charming' and i don't want to hear anything about the frontier. How did i go from a morphine-addled French diva to an obnoxious red-haired orphan dancing with a mop? The pedaling mice and button-pushing monkeys at the Pandora lab must have been fed fruit juice this afternoon instead of their usual musical-wisdom-inducing meal of wine and grilled cheese sandiches. (Get it? fruit juice? no? call me, i'll explain it. It's very clever.) i say again, BLECH. i don't welcome any song where the 'singer' hammily talk-shouts their way through a verse then tosses out a long note and Clay Aikens their way through the chorus. Yes, i am a snob with emo tendencies, thanks for asking.
But, as our bookwormy friend Lavar Burton used to say, "don't take my word for it." Other than this little hiccup, Pandora has been the best thing to happen to my long work day since i took the long tendrils of my Office Plant and hooked them around the nails in the wall to create a tacky, creepy 'Attack of the Garden Suite' look. i highly recommend this spiffy site. You can put in your favorite song or artist and let it play that music's kissing cousins all day, or you can explore new avenues of musicology. The mix it creates for you is stored as a 'station' so if you create an account (free. easy. (not in the skanky way.)) you can listen to the mix as often as you like, and you can create multiple stations. Marvelous. Now if you'll excuse me, i have to go punch Eva Peron in the face for assuming all of Argentina spends it days crying for her.

Sound and Fury Indeed

My boss is a classicist. i don't know if that's a word, but he believes in Beethoven and Aristotle and thinks everything modern is rubbish. i, as you know, disagree with that philosophy completely. He gamely offered to read any one book i gave him, so i brought forth a selection he could choose from. The selection included: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Farewell Summer, The Princess Bride, and The Sound & The Fury. He chose the latter, which i thought was brave, or stupid, or both (as is often the case with such things). This literary gem takes place over 18 years and is told from 4 different perspectives, one of which is mentally handicapped. Oh, and it's stream of consciousness. So bye-bye traditional sentence structure, chronology and all those fun installments of language. It's a daunting read. The first experience i had with Faulkner and stream of conciousness literature was under the guidance of one Dr. Karl Martin, so it was safe environment and very educational. i highly recommend this approach. For a layman to approach this kind of writing inexperienced and unguided is risky. But i digress.

My boss started the book and is, unsurprisingly, quite frustrated with the writing. He has a hard time seeing my point that it may be better writing (in style, at least) than, say, Dickens. i see Faulkner like cummings: as transcending traditional English language using imagination and a mastery of said language. My boss sees it as laziness and insists that art must have some aboslutes, lest we slide into 'anything goes'. i see his point, but respectfully disagree.

So here are two excerpts (which is a fantastic word). The first is from The Sound and the Fury and the second is from Dickenseses The Pickwick Papers. i'd like to know which you think demonstrates 'better writing', whatever that is.

When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o' clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

-----

As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.

what the bell?

Seeking input for a super spiffy name for our bell choir. Can't be too punny, can't be too fem (it's difficult enough to get men in the ensemble). We have 39 bells over 3 octaves. Most of our members are middle-aged or senior adult church ladies who need gentle guidance in thinking outside the box (which probably explains their attraction to a musical instrument where you only ever play exactly when you're told to), so nothing too avant garde. (because, you know, nothing says 'avant garde' like handbells and burgundy felt) Have at it, internet.

jealous?

i have a soft, toasty pit bull sleeping in my office, under my desk right now. Of course, i went to all the effort to bring her dog bed in, but she has no need for that, because she NEEDS TO LAY BY MY FEET NO MATTER WHERE MY FEET ARE OR WHAT THEY'RE DOING SERIOUSLY KALLIE DON'T MAKE ME LEAVE THE SAFETY OF YOUR FEET BECAUSE THIS NICE OFFICE IS THE SCARIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN AND I WILL DIE I WILL DIE I WILL DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE.

(i took a picture with my cell phone but i can't post it here. It's a picture of a perfectly good dog bed which gets plenty of puppy love at home, lying unused about 11 inches from the dog who has wedged herself under my desk while simultaneously wrapping herself around the wheels of my chair. And occasionally she woofs at invisible and, if you ask me, nonexistant threats. Also, when the very nice HR rep came by with her very nice Aussie, Penny went ballistic, (and not in the ebullient 'oh i'm so happy to meet you!' way) because it's not like our HR person is the decision maker for office dog policies or anything.....So much for teamwork. )

8-word shoes

Good news, internet, i'm finally wearing my gold faux snakeskin peep-toe cork wedge mules. i've had them for ages and i've just today summoned the cojones (and accompanying outfit) to wear them.

Dogs Rule Day

An International Holiday for Dogs
Saturday, October 11th

Pedigree was kind enough to offer 101 ways to celebrate, including suggestions like:
"If your dog is a border collie, pretend to be a sheep"
"Bark at the postman with her"
and "Sing him a song. Maybe wear a costume."
Other less embarrassing suggestions for celebrating include:
"Donate a dog bed/bag of food/your time to a shelter"
and "Go to the pound and say 'hi' to all the dogs."
See? you don't even have to have a dog to celebrate!

let's just be honest: it's me talking about myself

Today on a David's Facebook page i saw a picture that was probably 4 years old and it was of the three of us lying on a blanket under a tree. i only scarcely remember the moment it captures, and didn't know the picture existed or that it was significant to David (hi David), so that was a little like a very mild out-of-body experience. i also found a notebook of my poems this evening, which happens more frequently than it should (you see, i was once prolific, and was once as improvisational as i was unorganized, and since i've moved 12049874 times in the last 10 years, it's not so strange to constantly be discovering handfuls of poems in boxes or old dresser drawers.) (i know what you're thinking 'wow, she has really come a long way from her unorganized past.') (And by the way, i know you were thinking it sarcastically, so, haha, very funny.) So i found poems, which is like finding a photo of yourself that you didn't know existed, and finding it in the online equivalent of a picture frame on someone's coffee table. i only remember writing some of the poems, and, as is usually the case, some cause me to smack my knee in delight over my genius, and others are completely laughable and make me cringe multiple times and then i have that debate you sometimes have regarding embarrassing parts of yourself where you try to decide whether to destroy it so no one will ever know how sappy/delusional/talentless you were, or keep it and tuck it away for them to find when you're long gone and then they can decide for themselves to consider you posthumously ridiculous or not. Hello, world's longest sentence, nice to meet you.

Anyway, almost all of the poems were written when i lived in Rome, in those crazy days immediately after 9/11 and when i didn't know if i was for reals dating Josh or if it was love or if alcohol was sinful or not or if i should get a bird tattooed on my foot or not. (seriously, there are bird tattoo sketches all. over. these poems) Evidently it was also the beginning of my affection for ee cummings because there are some verrrry experimental pieces here and i'm quite amused by them. There's also scribbled gems like: "Ideas are styles of nourishment that wash through perception like tsunamis" (no clue what that means but i'm sure i really preened over it at the time) and obvious sides of secret note conversations with Erin and/or Chrystal, like: "Magic Bubbles are always fun. Narcissictic? Ya. Cicero DIES hahaha!" (yes, that's all one conversation) and examples of what was the pinnacle of my learning the Italian language: "Ho Oreos a mia casa." (to this day the only Italian phrases i know are "i have Oreos at my house", "I'm twenty years old", and "How much does this cost?") So i found these poems. A few are about 9/11 and they're crap. Many, many, many are pining, whining and lovesick. One is about Victor Frankenstein and i have no idea why i was thinking that deeply about Frankenstein. The word 'tears' is used way too often and i want to travel back in time and punch 2001 Kallie in the face every time i read it. Out of all that there's only two i'm willing to share here, and i was thinking about whether doing so was audacious or not ("Everyone come see how good i look!") but since i didn't know these poems existed and feel so far removed from the me that wrote them, they hardly feels like they're mine, you know? So. First, an untitled haiku:

Do you ever hear

the pause of my footsteps on

the floor of your mind?

Second, one of those 9/11 poems, with obvious cummings derivations:

September 12 Newspaper

The thinpressed

pulp-and-grey Herald

of destructionD

straction

is silk

onabovehighonoveracrossagainston

the concrete street ,

reveling

inthe kiSSed metamorphosis

of Monday's only Answer

to mourning.

Research, schmesearch, i support cancer!!

(try saying schmesearch 5 times fast.)

It gives me the creeps when that all important little word, research, is left off of promotional materials, titles, headlines. I.e., 'DONATE TO SUPPORT BREAST CANCER!' or it's cousin 'ALL PROCEEDS TO SUPPORT MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY!'

i get that we're supposed to assume they mean breast cancer research and the fight against MD because no one actually supports that stuff, in and of itself, but can we please be more careful and not look like weird, terminal disease loving gonzos? Kind of like these people.